Another Sentimental Journey
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: The gang reminisces again. Written in memoriam and tribute to Hervé Villechaize.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _On April 23, Hervé Villechaize would have been 67 years old. Though he died at only 50, he left more of a legacy than he probably ever suspected, through the character of Tattoo, far and away the best-known of all the roles he portrayed. This story gathers together a number of "Fantasy Island" episodes, some of which feature Tattoo prominently. Happy birthday, M. Villechaize, wherever you may be…

* * *

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§ § § -- July 4, 2006

"You promised, Uncle Roarke," the boy pleaded, standing on his toes, his fingers curling around the edge of Roarke's desk. "Remember last time you and Miss Leslie told stories about when she was a kid here? You promised we'd get to hear more."

"Rory Callaghan," scolded Julie, glaring at him. "That's not the way you ask, and you know it. How many times do we have to tell you?"

Roarke regarded Rory with the barest indulgence, well aware of Rogan and Julie's ongoing struggle to civilize their magically gifted son. "Perhaps," he said at some length, "if you learn to behave yourself properly and do as your parents tell you to—without using your magical powers to get your way every time something happens that you don't like—then we can discuss having another story time."

Rory actually turned red, clearly caught out by what seemed like Roarke's complete knowledge of everything. "My dad said he told you what I did in school."

"Indeed he did, and I find it difficult to award privileges to a child who takes advantage of other children by utilizing abilities they don't have. You may not have known this, but I have ways of neutralizing your powers so that you can't access them until you're older and have learned to comport yourself in a more civilized manner."

Rory gasped. "You do?" He turned to stare at Julie over his shoulder. "Does he, Mom?"

"He sure does," Julie said, folding her arms over her chest. "He did it to Aunt Delphine once when she was teasing me too much. I was your age and I remember it very well." She looked at Roarke. "I always meant to thank you for that and I kept forgetting."

Roarke laughed. "That's quite all right, Julie."

"So that, young man," Julie concluded with a stern glare at her son, "means you'd better start shaping up and doing as you're told, and quit using your powers to get your way all the time. The next time you do that, I'm bringing you over here and uncle will make sure your powers are locked away till you can be good. That isn't a threat, it's a promise, so you better remember it."

"I will, Mom," Rory mumbled, looking abashed. "I will, Uncle Roarke." He settled back on his feet, released the desktop, and peered contritely at Roarke from under a mop of light-brown waves. "Please, Uncle Roarke, may I come over to hear stories from you and Miss Leslie? Today?"

Roarke chuckled. "Nicely done, Rory. Very well, we'll arrange something for this evening, after we've eaten. I'll have Christian and Leslie stay here with the triplets, and you and your parents may come over at about seven this evening, if that's all right with you, Julie."

"That works fine," Julie agreed and grinned. "To tell the truth, I'm looking forward to it myself. Okay, come on, Rory, we've got to get back so we can drag Dad out of that darned greenhouse again." Roarke laughed as Julie took her son's hand and they departed.

So it happened that shortly after seven o'clock, with some of Roarke's employees preparing a fireworks show for the few Americans currently on the island and everything else quiet and slowly settling down for the night, nine people gathered in the study of the main house. Roarke sat as usual behind his desk; Rogan and Julie occupied the leather chairs in front of it, with Rory standing between them; Christian and Leslie sat on the loveseat; and Susanna, Karina and Tobias, all wearing footed pajamas, perched on the matching settee. "Sto-wy, Ampa," Susanna urged, making Roarke laugh and meet Leslie's gaze.

"I seem to recall that Rory was curious about some of Tattoo's assorted escapades in the past," he remarked. "Do you recall any specific ones you'd like to talk about?"

"There's a whole raft of memories associated with that," Leslie remarked with a laugh. "I know we go back to my ninth-grade year an awful lot, but that year we had so many cool and fascinating fantasies, it's hard to keep from plundering my memories from back then. How about when Tattoo decided he wanted to be a love god and attract all sorts of beautiful women? We didn't actually see most of that, except for our two little spy missions."

Roarke shook his head, chuckling. "I'm afraid it was a rather wild weekend for poor Tattoo. But why don't we begin at the beginning."

§ § § -- September 22, 1979

They could hear the drone of the charter plane circling overhead, preparatory to landing, and as he did every Saturday before leaving the house, Roarke pulled open the shutters of the little-used front room where he stored various accoutrements of the many fantasies he had granted over the years. Leslie paused beside him, watching him for a moment as he scanned the sky in search of the plane; then she grinned as they heard the bell ringing in the tower and the faint sound of Tattoo's voice shouting, "The plane! The plane!" Roarke nodded with satisfaction and gestured to his ward; together they left the room, moved through the outer foyer and onto the porch, and waited for Tattoo to catch up after his descent from the bell tower.

After a moment he appeared, striding briskly toward them; Leslie smiled, and Roarke offered, "Well, good morning, Tattoo! It certainly is a love…ly…day…" His voice trailed off as Tattoo strode right past them and climbed into the front seat of his little car, parked nearby beside a sign that warned, _Parking for Tattoo Only_.

"If you say so, boss," Tattoo responded without looking back.

"Tattoo!" Roarke said in bewilderment, staring at him, absently replacing his gold pocket watch as he spoke.

"Come on, boss, let's go meet our guests," Tattoo urged, reaching for the ignition.

Roarke and Leslie glanced at each other; then Roarke started forward. "Tattoo…wait, what is happening?"

"Boss, we're late—let's go," Tattoo insisted, revving up the engine, and without waiting for a response, he pulled away in his usual breakneck fashion. Leslie came up beside her guardian to stare after the retreating car in disbelief; then she turned to Roarke to ask a question, only to see a knowing grin spread over his face and his dark eyes light with amusement. She leaned over to get a better look at him, just to see if that was really the expression she saw on his face.

"Mr. Roarke, you know what he's in such a hurry about, don't you?" she asked.

Roarke cast a glance at her, then chuckled softly and slipped an arm around her shoulders for a moment. "Something tells me we're in for an unusual weekend," he observed as the rover drew to a halt in front of the sidewalk. "Come along."

Tattoo wasn't far ahead of them; in fact, the rover arrived just behind him at the plane dock in time for them to see him jump out of his car and shout, "Smiles, smiles, everyone!" Roarke and Leslie were still getting out of the car when they saw him motion the band into action; and Roarke seemed slightly annoyed by his presumptuousness.

"Tattoo," he demanded as he and Leslie finally caught up with him, "will you tell us what's happening?"

"Oh, nothing much, boss," Tattoo said. "We have a very special guest coming today."

Roarke stared at him. "A very special guest? Who?"

About to add her two cents, Leslie was rudely cut off by Tattoo's sudden turn and gesture toward the dock where two young women were approaching, one blonde, one brunette; each carried what appeared to be a large poster. "Oh, here are some of the guests coming," he prompted. "Hmm…they are beautiful ladies. Who are they, boss?"

"Miss Myra Kolinsky and Miss Gladys Boyling, all the way from Terre Haute, Indiana, where they are nurses in the county hospital." As the two women stepped onto the ground from the dock, accepting drinks, their posters rotated so that Leslie could now see that they were enormous black-and-white photos of two actors.

"What's that stuff they're carrying?" Tattoo asked, squinting at the posters.

"Oh…they are posters of their favorite movie stars."

"Oh." Tattoo brightened. "That's Clark Gable and Leslie Howard, from _Gone With the Wind_." He glanced at Leslie and grinned. "No relation to you, of course." Leslie just rolled her eyes at him, and he chuckled.

Roarke grinned too. "Indeed it is, my friend. Miss Kolinsky and Miss Boyling are the world's greatest fans of that film; both have seen it a hundred and thirty-five times." At this Tattoo and Leslie both gawked at him, mouths dropping wide open with identically shocked looks. He nodded. "And it is their joint fantasy to be a woman like Scarlett O'Hara and fall in love with someone like Rhett Butler or Ashley Wilkes."

"They both want to be like Scarlett O'Hara?" Tattoo asked doubtfully.

"Yes," Roarke said. "Or someone very like her."

"But boss…how can we bring them back to the Civil War?"

"You ought to know by now it's simple for him, silly," Leslie scoffed good-naturedly. "I mean, geez, I've been here only six months, and even I know that."

Roarke chuckled cheerfully, then turned his attention to the plane dock—only to see the attendant there close the hatch on the charter. "What?" Leslie blurted. "Only one fantasy this weekend? How come?"

"That is strange," Roarke agreed, frowning.

"What's that, boss?" Tattoo asked, all innocence.

"Our next guest, a Mr. Oottat, is supposed to be on the plane, but I don't see him."

"Maybe Mr. Oottat is already here," Tattoo suggested, with a look that suddenly told Leslie he had to be behind the apparently missing guest.

Roarke shot him a skeptical look. "Already here? How could that be possible?"

"Because Mr. Oottat is me," the Frenchman announced.

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other, both slightly perplexed; then Roarke leaned over a little to give him a penetrating look that demanded an answer. Obligingly Tattoo prompted, "How do you spell _Oottat_ backwards?"

"Oottat…Tattoo…oh, it's you!" Leslie groaned, disgusted with herself that she hadn't figured it out already. "That's really corny!"

"I think that's very inventive, my friend," Roarke remarked, as if trying to smooth things over in the wake of her annoyed disgust. Tattoo beamed. "So I take it you want to live out a fantasy?"

"Sure, you already made all the preparations for it, when you got the letter."

Recognition filled Roarke's face. "Oh yes, yes, yes, the letter, which you now say came from you." He glanced at Leslie, who couldn't recall any such letter, and proceeded to elaborate. "Let's see if I remember. Uh…'Dear Mr. Roarke, I am a very highly-thought-of executive, in a very responsible job which requires me to handle a variety of people and accommodate their needs.' " Tattoo evinced modesty throughout, though Leslie was disinclined to buy his little act; still, she listened, too curious to resist, and was rewarded by Roarke's commented aside: "By the way, you misspelled _their."_

"Well, nobody's perfect," Tattoo said with a faint shrug. "Continue." He ignored Leslie's burst of laughter.

Grinning, Roarke went on: " 'I want my own needs fulfilled for once. Therefore, it is my fantasy to be admired, adored and loved by many beautiful women, and to be the master of all I survey. Yours truly, Mister H. L. Oottat.' " The grin faded and he peered at his assistant curiously. "H. L.?"

"Hot Lips," Tattoo said brightly. Leslie groaned aloud and started to laugh in spite of herself; Roarke apparently decided he was better off not commenting. Tattoo was still beaming. "Boss, you're gonna give me my fantasy—please?" Without waiting for a reply, he headed off to get himself a drink and await Roarke's weekly introduction.

"Hot Lips Oottat," Leslie blurted, still laughing. "The master of all he surveys. I don't believe this. It's insane. Are you really gonna do it, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke's mild annoyance was slowly supplanted by amusement, and maybe a touch of resignation. "Well, he did pay for the privilege," he observed. "I suppose it's only fair. And perhaps he'll learn a little something this weekend." He turned to the native girl who held his glass of champagne and lifted the glass from her tray, raising it as always. "My dear guests—and Mr. Oottat—I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"

Leslie shook her head, her long hair swaying back and forth, and watched Roarke watching Tattoo; Roarke seemed almost anticipatory now, and Tattoo clearly couldn't wait to get started. Leslie found herself feeling the same way, even if only to see Tattoo rethink some of his fondest daydreams.

‡ ‡ ‡

They finally caught up with Tattoo at a lagoon where a small reception was being held for some visiting models and photographers for a department-store catalog, after trekking a fair distance around the resort end of the island. "Tattoo!" Roarke called, finally spotting his assistant in the near distance. Tattoo had found the time to change into a jacket patterned in black and blue plaid, a casual white shirt and a blue neckerchief knotted around his throat. "We've been looking all over for you."

"I've been looking for you too, and I'm really steamed," Tattoo informed him, his round face petulant.

"What seems to be the difficulty?" Roarke asked blankly.

"My fantasy! Women were supposed to go bananas over me!" At Roarke's prompt, Tattoo complained, "I've struck out ten times, and one lady hit me with her purse!" He gave Leslie a black glare when she started to laugh.

Roarke squeezed her shoulder in mild reprimand and eyed his assistant in admonishment. "Tattoo, you of all people should know that a fantasy is not an automatic occurrence! Certain adjustments must be made; the proper time must arrive. Be patient a little longer." He cast a glance at the table set up not far away. "Uh…why don't you have a coconut boom-boom while you wait?"

Tattoo, disgruntlement partially appeased, forgot his complaint entirely when he spied a pretty dark-haired girl bearing a tray, crossing the clearing. "Ooh-la-la! Boss…she's a dynamite chick. How come I never saw her around here?"

"Luana just started today. She lives on one of the outermost islands, so she has quite a bit to learn." Tattoo lit up at that, and Roarke smiled in that odd, knowing way of his. "Well, enjoy your drink," he said and paused just long enough to watch the Frenchman making a veritable beeline for the new girl before chuckling once or twice. "Come along, Leslie, we have another fantasy to launch."

She had taken no more than five or six steps when she heard Tattoo's voice behind her requesting, "Can I have a coconut boom-boom, please?" Wondering what such a drink looked like, Leslie turned around to see, just in time to witness Luana gape at Tattoo, gasp and cry out, "Nui Oh'wi!" before dropping her tray and fleeing. Tattoo stared after her in pure confusion, and Leslie blinked a couple of times in the strong tropical sun, watching Luana tear off across the grass.

"Now I cannot even get a girl to serve me a drink," Tattoo grumbled disgustedly. "Some fantasy!"

"Leslie, what are you doing? We don't want to be late," Roarke chided.

She turned back to him. "Mr. Roarke, did you see that? What happened to Luana?"

"Hm?" Roarke seemed completely unaware that anything had happened. Before she could explain, they both heard chants of "Nui Oh'wi" under the beat of a drum, and Leslie saw it register in her guardian's expression.

"Come on, Mr. Roarke, something's happening. What is it?" she persisted.

"Why, Tattoo is about to become the master of all he surveys," Roarke told her whimsically, and smiled broadly at her when she stared at him. "Now let's try to get back before Miss Boyling and Miss Kolinsky find reason to complain as well."


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- September 22, 1979

"So come on, Mr. Roarke," Leslie persisted over lunch. "Who, or what, is 'Nui Oh'wi' anyway? I never heard of that before."

Roarke, who had been patiently bearing with her pestering all morning, finally gave in and smiled indulgently at her. "I suppose it can do you no harm to know, particularly since I thought you might like to look in on Tattoo in secret now and then. Nui Oh'wi is the name of a god on the island that Luana comes from. In fact, the very words themselves mean 'the god of love'. Well, after all, that's what Tattoo's fantasy is, is it not?"

"Well, he did say he wanted to be loved and admired by loads of beautiful women," Leslie agreed, frowning. "And if he's a god…I guess that covers the 'master of all he surveys' part." She peered doubtfully at him. "But do they really think he's a god?"

"That's his fantasy, Leslie, remember?" Roarke reminded her, infinitely patient.

She shrugged. "I guess it was." For a few minutes she fell silent, forking in a few bites, while Roarke worked on his own lunch. Then she remembered something else he had said and looked up. "You said something about looking in on Tattoo. You mean by myself?"

"Of course not, child, I'll be with you," Roarke said, as though it should have been obvious to even the most obtuse human being. "There may come a day when I will teach you how to make the transition on your own, so that you can help me by making quick checks on fantasies. But for the moment, it's best that I accompany you."

And he kept that promise, just after lunch had ended, by taking her through the room where he most often sent guests back in time. Today it wasn't in use, even though Myra Kolinsky and Gladys Boyling had traveled back to the American Civil War; they had been given the use of a team of horses and an old-fashioned two-seater buggy, which naturally could never have fit into this little room. So the space was bare of any trappings, but the floor was covered in the sort of fog produced by dry ice, which billowed up and swallowed them both the moment Roarke closed the door to the study.

Leslie panicked. "Mr. Roarke, are you still there? I can't see a thing!"

"I am here, Leslie, don't worry," she heard him assure her, and she took a hesitant step forward, hoping to bump into him. Before she got any farther, however, the fog suddenly cleared away, and she looked around in amazement. They were surrounded by a thick forest of palms and a few deciduous trees that could withstand the tropical climate; the humidity was higher than on Fantasy Island, and in the near distance they could hear the regular rush of waves rolling onshore. Through the thicket of tree trunks, a small village was visible, consisting of a group of straw and bamboo huts. An odd-looking bamboo contraption sat in the middle of a small clearing around which the huts had been grouped, a sort of throne which held Tattoo, decked out in a mass of brilliant yellow feathers and a matching headdress; the suit was trimmed with black feathers and adorned with a wide round collar made of red, white and navy-blue beads. He was making impressive inroads on a huge plate of tropical fruit, and was being handed still more by the two young native women who flanked his sides. Suddenly he pushed their hands away. "No more fruit…no more mango. They give me a bellyache." He lifted a wooden gavel and waited expectantly while Roarke and Leslie watched with heightening interest.

The village natives were standing in a crowd around the "throne", so that from time to time someone's head blocked their view of Tattoo; but they could hear every word that was said. The village chief spoke: "Nui Oh'wi is ready to hear your problems."

There was silence, broken only by the repetitive bleating of a goat; then Tattoo waved forward a mustachioed young native and a somewhat overweight older one. "You first, buddy," he said. The younger man bowed to Tattoo; the older just eyed him in silence.

"Oh, wise Nui Oh'wi," the man with the mustache began, "I say this goat belongs to me, because I found it wandering in my garden."

"No, the goat belongs to me," the older man countered indignantly. "I can't help it if it went for a walk and wandered over there."

"Hear the judgment of Nui Oh'wi," the chief intoned firmly.

Tattoo smiled smugly and regarded the two complainants. "Where is your wife?" he inquired of the younger man.

The native glared in the older man's direction. "She is visiting _his_ wife, in his garden."

"You mean, she's just wandering around to visit?" queried Tattoo.

"Yes," the younger man said, with less certainty.

Tattoo nodded. "Then you keep the goat, and he can keep your wife." Leslie gasped softly and put a hand to her mouth, glancing in delight at Roarke, who grinned. Tattoo called out, "Next case!" and banged his gavel.

"A goat for a wife!" blurted the young native. "That's not a fair trade!"

"Then give him back his goat," Tattoo ordered, waiting till the mustached man had handed the goat's reins back to its rightful owner before banging his gavel and commanding once more, "Next case!"

Giggling, Leslie watched while an even younger native man stepped up to the front of Tattoo's odd little throne, with Luana at his side. "It is my turn, Nui Oh'wi," the man said, while Leslie swallowed back her mirth in order to hear the proceedings. "I, Kona, ask you to sanction my marriage to Luana."

Tattoo considered the pair, then half shrugged and said amiably, "Well, it's okay with me. What about Luana?" He eyed the pretty native girl who had first called Tattoo by the name of the god he was portraying. "Luana, you want to marry, uh…what's-his-name?"

Gasps went up at this and people looked at one another in shock. Leslie bit her lip and murmured low to Roarke, "They must think he should have known that guy's name."

"Perhaps," Roarke murmured, frowning slightly. "But I suspect it's more than the mere omission of a name."

Tattoo seemed worried as well; he pounded his gavel and shushed the mumbling that had arisen in the crowd. "What's wrong? Did I say something wrong? I only asked if she wanted to marry him."

"You…you wish my opinion, Nui Oh'wi?" Luana ventured, as though afraid to believe she actually had a choice.

"That's what I asked for," Tattoo said.

Luana hesitated, glanced at Kona, then turned back to Tattoo and announced, "No. I do not wish to marry him."

Tattoo smiled. "Well, in that case, you don't have to." Luana brightened in amazed delight, and a friend came up to hug her while cheers arose from the gathering. Pleased with himself, Tattoo called, "Next case! I'd like some papaya."

He was taking a chunk of fruit from the hand of the girl at his left when Kona, pushing people out of his way, approached Tattoo and glared threateningly at him. He spoke low enough that even Roarke had to listen carefully to hear his words. "You have taken Luana from me…but you and she must remember that gods rise and fall. And when they fall, they are but men—and men may die." Kona spat out the final four words as though they were poison before taking his leave.

"What a sorehead," Tattoo said dismissively.

But Luana took Kona's place by the throne and pleaded, "Nui Oh'wi, beware of him. He is deadly dangerous, and now he hates you."

"Don't worry. Us gods, we don't scare easy," Tattoo said cheerfully and raised his voice so that everyone could hear. "Hey, who wants to dance?"

Roarke and Leslie retreated a few steps in silence while a small luau got under way, and the fog swirled up and around them again. This time Leslie managed to grab Roarke's hand before it shut him from her view, and she was relieved when they found themselves back in the study; the fog cleared away again once Roarke had opened the door, making her wonder how he'd known where the knob was in all that pea soup. "Well," Roarke remarked, "that was quite a visit, don't you think?"

"I think he's having way too much fun being a god and not paying any attention to that guy's threats," Leslie said. She hesitated a moment, thinking about it while Roarke watched her with interest; then she focused on him. "So is he really a god? I mean, just for the weekend, as part of his fantasy?"

Roarke smiled, retreated to his desk and sat behind it before fixing his attention on her. "Well now, Leslie, what do you think?"

"I think," she mumbled slowly, "that he knows he's not really a god, and he doesn't have the powers of a god, but he's so crazy to be one that he's putting up a front. And it's like that Kona said. When gods fall, they're only men. Which is what Tattoo is." She looked up sharply as this registered fully. "Are you gonna just leave him to take that fall he's setting himself up for? That wasn't his fantasy!"

"Perhaps not." Roarke relaxed in his chair, still smiling a little. "But as you've been learning—and as Tattoo should know by now, all too well—even a fantasy must have some element of reality in it. I can't change that, not even with my powers. There must always be checks and balances, and Tattoo's ambitions may well spiral completely out of control if he is not reminded of his own limitations."

"I guess you're right," Leslie mused through a sigh. "I just hope he doesn't get hurt in the middle of it all. Can we check on him again tomorrow?"

"Of course," Roarke agreed. "For the moment, why don't you go through the mail, before it gets beyond _your_ control." He winked, and she snickered and willingly settled down to go through the latest batches of letters. Yet all the while, in the back of her mind, she was still thinking of Tattoo, hoping he didn't end up biting off more than he could chew—an all-too-real danger in a fantasy like his.

§ § § -- September 23, 1979

Sunday morning was bright, the sun diffused somewhat by transparent, gossamer cloud cover. After breakfast, Roarke checked his gold watch, then beckoned to his ward. "I think this would be a good time to make that check on Tattoo."

They went through the same ritual as the day before, and when they could see their surroundings, they became aware that the low, loud moan of a shell horn was drawing in the villagers from all around. Tattoo, soaking wet and dripping as if he had just come in from a swim, appeared abruptly from the crowd and stared up at Luana, whose face was radiant. "What's that noise? What's wrong?"

"Wonderful news, holy one," Luana bubbled. "A huge school of fish has been sighted off the reef. Good fishing has returned, thanks to Nui Oh'wi!"

The villagers began to cheer—all but Kona, who was conspicuous by standing off to one side of the crowd and glaring at Tattoo. Oblivious, the diminutive "god" grinned widely, clearly very pleased at this development, and as it happened, more than willing to take the credit for it.

"You have heard, Nui Oh'wi?" asked the village chief. "Your bounty has been returned to us. I and my people thank you."

"Don't mention it," Tattoo said, grinning and at least trying to be modest, without a whole lot of success, Leslie thought. She turned to Roarke, who was smiling.

"Is that his doing, really? Or did you do it?" she whispered. Roarke merely gave her a sidewise glance, without changing expression.

The chief continued: "Nui Oh'wi has delivered the fish to his people; and now, as it is foretold in ancient legends, he will deliver the catch safely into our hands..." Throughout this narrative, Tattoo was beaming proudly around at the crowd, though primarily at the adoring Luana. "…and drive away the hungry sharks that are attacking already," the chief added, neatly erasing the smile from Tattoo's face. "Quickly, Nui Oh'wi! Fly over the reef, and drive the sharks away from the fish, which were meant for us. Fly!" This urging was taken up by the happy crowd; Luana waited, happy and expectant, and Tattoo looked around in horror and disbelief.

"Mr. Roarke…" Leslie whispered.

He shook his head and put a finger to his lips. "I am afraid, child, that this is the fall the young man predicted Tattoo would take."

Tattoo clearly realized he was in far too deep, and frantically waved his arms, shouting, "Wait a minute…_wait a minute!" _ The crowd fell silent. "I can't fly to drive the sharks away, unless you give me a helicopter. I'm not a bird. Look, I can't help myself." He spread out his arms and jumped up and down a few times to demonstrate his lack of lift, while the villagers stared at him with mounting disillusionment. "I'm not a bird!" He turned to the stunned Luana and reiterated, "I can't fly!"

Kona filled in the breach. "Then Nui Oh'wi is a false god! He has mocked us by bringing us fish, which we must battle the sharks to keep! To the stockade with him, and let us tend to our fishing." Amid the rising grumbles, he focused on Tattoo and sneered, "As I said, little one—when gods fall, they are but men, and men may die."

Drums began beating and the crowd's restlessness broke into shouts; two villagers grabbed Tattoo by the arms and toted him away, while the hapless "god" shouted frantically, "Help, help!" Kona directed the village men toward the beach, while the women and some children stood around watching in silent bewilderment. Meantime, Tattoo was hauled straight to a sturdy bamboo cage and thrust unceremoniously inside, protesting and shouting the entire time, while his captors securely latched the door. "Let me out…I'm your god…open the door! I'm Nui Oh'wi! Come back!" The two men paid him no heed and ran off to join their compatriots in launching the outriggers for the fishing expedition.

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other, then at Tattoo's prison, which they could now see clearly from where they stood in their hiding place in the trees. Leslie grabbed her guardian's arm at sight of a pile of skulls in the corner, not far from where Tattoo had finally given up and collapsed into a sitting position. Roarke's brows went north, just as they heard Tattoo groan to himself, "Oh boy…I think I'm in a lot of trouble."

"Indeed, my ambitious friend…indeed," murmured Roarke, before urging Leslie away, to her sheer astonishment.

"You're gonna just leave him in jail like that?" she protested when they were back in the study.

Roarke eyed him. "What would you have me do? Swoop in, as some _deus ex machina_, and rescue him? What lesson do you suppose he would take away from that?"

Leslie planted her feet apart on the floor and put her fists on her hips. "Mr. Roarke, come on…we're gonna have to get him out of there one way or another." She brightened as an idea popped into her head. "And I know how we can do it…we can come in through that fog like we've been doing, and use it to appear inside Tattoo's cage, and grab his hands. And then we can use the fog to come back here with him. That way he disappears right in front of the natives' eyes, and they'll think he was a god after all. Face saved, image restored."

Roarke stared at her, astonished; then, to her disgruntled embarrassment, he burst into hearty laughter. It took him a good minute or so to notice her reaction, and then he came to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, still laughing. "Ah, my child, I know your intentions are all the best, and I must commend you for the sheer inventiveness of that suggestion. Unfortunately, I am bound not to make even a pretense of being a god myself…and what do you suppose would happen should I do as you describe? It's entirely possible that it could backfire, expose the two of us, and bring Tattoo's status up to something on the order of some mischievous juvenile god being reprimanded by his superior."

"That would kind of be what it really is, though, wouldn't it?" Leslie asked feebly.

Roarke squeezed her, shaking his head, laughter lingering. "I think it best that Tattoo be allowed to use his own brain and his own resources in the matter of his escape. If he truly does find himself in a situation that defies his capabilities, then we will step in, that I can promise you. Does that satisfy your sense of honor?"

"Oh, I guess so," she muttered. "I just wish you didn't think my idea was so funny."

"My apologies," Roarke chuckled and squeezed her again before releasing her and returning to the desk. "We have a little work to do, so why don't you get your mind off the problem entirely and help me a little here."

They had been going steadily on for several hours, both before and after lunch, when the grandfather clock chimed, and Roarke looked up. "I believe it's time to bring the ladies back from their fantasy. Would you like to come with me?"

"Sure!" Leslie agreed and willingly followed him out of the house and along a trail that led from the terrace outside the French shutters. They walked for about fifteen minutes, along trails that Leslie didn't yet know, till she began to notice wisps of white fog drifting through the trees and mingling with the dust of the trail. "More fog?"

"It's the same mist that effected the time travel," Roarke said. For a minute or two it grew almost too thick to see; she ran to close the distance between herself and Roarke so that she could stay on the path. Shortly the cloudy air began to clear, and they came upon a large wheeled cage pulled by two horses, which had stopped at a bend in the dirt road on which the path terminated. Inside the cage were two young women, one in a red dress and the other wearing sky blue; two men wearing Union Army uniforms leaped off the front of the cage and ran to the back as soon as it stopped, unlatching the back door and helping the women out. "Why are we stopping here?" asked Myra Kolinsky, her blonde curls and blue skirts flying as a man who looked startlingly like Clark Gable's Rhett Butler lifted her to the ground. Her friend Gladys Boyling stopped short, seeing Roarke and Leslie there.

"Ladies, you must come with me now," Roarke said.

Gladys' eyes widened. "Oh no, Mr. Roarke, please, not yet…"

"I'm sorry," Roarke told her firmly, "your fantasy is over."

Gladys' friend looked at her with compassion and said in a low, rusty, gravel-filled voice, "I think you'd better go with this gentleman. I'm sure he knows what's best."

Everyone stood in silence, waiting for Gladys and Myra to give in; then, from some little distance, they heard the sound of a horn bellowing out a familiar tune urging troops to charge forward. Leslie looked at Roarke, who waited calmly; she wasn't sure what had happened, but it seemed reasonable to deduce that the women and their men were being chased by enemy troops.

Myra stared up at her Clark Gable clone. "Without you, what'll happen to me?"

"Frankly, my dear, I—" He hesitated, stared at her, then said softly, "I very much give a damn." Leslie grinned to herself at that; for a second or two, she had actually expected him to quote the old Rhett Butler line! She watched Myra smile wistfully at him; then both women hugged and kissed their men before at last breaking loose and coming to join Roarke and Leslie. The two men clambered onto their wheeled cage and whipped the horses back into a run, disappearing around the bend in the road just before five or six horsemen came galloping into view, firing their guns ahead of them in their pursuit.

"Mr. Roarke, do they get away?" Myra asked, staring anxiously after them.

Even Leslie looked up and over her shoulder at her guardian when he let a few beats elapse before replying; then he smiled gently and said, "Only time will tell." The women had to accept that, and slowly they accompanied their host and his ward back into the fog, back to the present day.

They sat and listened to the women's story for a good half hour or so, and Leslie found herself wondering at their fascination with the Civil War era. "I guess that was pretty exciting for you," she ventured when Myra and Gladys took a break from their narrative to sip some tea, "but there's something I don't get. The Confederates lost the war, you know. Why would you go in fighting for the losing side? Besides, Indiana was on the Union side!"

Myra and Gladys looked at each other and laughed, then studied her with interest. "Have you ever seen _Gone With the Wind_?" Myra asked her.

"Not even once," Leslie admitted. "A couple of my friends have, but not me. Maybe I'm just too much of a northerner to have any sympathy. I know the book was written by a southerner and all that. It's just that…" She hesitated, self-conscious with all eyes on her; then she sighed and complained, "I don't usually like reading Civil-War-era books. They always make the south look like a perfect, romantic paradise, where all you had to do was sit on a porch and fan yourself and drink iced tea all day. And the northerners always come out looking like the epitome of evil. How come they always forget that the south was fighting to perpetuate slavery, which is one of the worst evils in the world?"

"You raise an excellent question, Leslie," Roarke said. "But you must remember that the sort of life led by plantation owners and their families looks very romantic indeed, more than one hundred years after the era has passed. I'm sure that northerners led as romantic a life as southerners did, with lavish parties and balls; but people have a history of rooting for the underdog, which the Confederacy was during the war. Time dulls the sharp edges and cruel realities of the war itself, and brings into light the softer, more enjoyable aspects of those days. The culture of the antebellum south is perceived to have been more formal and more…yes, romantic, than that of the north."

"Mr. Roarke probably explained it better than we could," Gladys said. "Yeah, we knew we were on the losing side. But we really wanted to experience something like the book and the movie, where the war is a background thing and the focus is on the life of a southern lady of the time. It's not necessarily the setting—it's the story."

Leslie nodded slowly, thinking it over. "I think I see what you mean. The romance and the handsome guy, right? That's what you were really looking for."

"You got it," Myra said warmly and smiled. "And I think we did find our guys, even if we didn't get to keep them. Thanks, Mr. Roarke, I guess we'll go have nice, hot, modern showers and change our clothes."

"Of course, ladies," Roarke agreed and watched them depart; then he turned to Leslie and grinned. "I daresay it's time to rescue Tattoo."

"Rescue him!" she blurted, alarmed. "Is he in trouble? And how do you know?"

Roarke just laughed. "It's my business to know," he said. "Hurry, we may need your help, and I'm sure you want to be there to make sure he's safe."


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- September 23, 1979

That was how Leslie found herself at the bow of a motorized raft steered by Roarke, with a large coil of rope in the bottom of the boat, crossing the ocean to a row of small islands some distance to the south of Fantasy Island. Some of them were little more than rocky outcroppings crowned with four or five palms; others were big enough to contain a small village or two. At one of the outermost of these specks of land, Roarke steered the raft down an inlet that was separated from the ocean by a strip of forested land. The inlet curved sharply to the left up ahead and met another waterway that connected with the ocean; Leslie could see glimpses of color through the trees on that side and peered intensely through them, trying to figure out what was happening.

Then they reached the curve and spotted two outrigger canoes still some distance away, toward the village they had earlier spied on; one of them held Tattoo, who was trying with a lot of effort and minimal success to propel the craft along with his lone oar, and the other contained half a dozen village men who had all but closed the gap between themselves and Tattoo, and were preparing to grab him and drag him into their canoe from his own. Leslie pointed and shouted over the raft's motor, "Mr. Roarke, there he is!"

Roarke promptly gunned the motor and sped up the inlet till he had pulled out just ahead of the two outriggers, then let the engine idle long enough to pick up the rope and aim carefully for Tattoo's outrigger. Leslie stumbled back and held the wheel to maintain their position while Roarke cast the rope, with a triple hook tied firmly to one end, and managed to snag Tattoo's outrigger on the first try. "Got it, boss!" Tattoo yelled, barely audible over the noise of the motor. He signaled frantically with his oar.

Roarke nodded, gestured Leslie towards the bow again and took the wheel, revving up the motor again. The raft responded instantly and easily towed the outrigger across the water, outdistancing the pursuers despite their best efforts. Leslie glanced back and saw them finally give up in exhaustion, and grinned at Roarke, scraping her hair out of her face as the wind whipped it back into her eyes.

"Boss!" they heard Tattoo yell from behind, and both focused on him. "Thank you, you saved me!" Roarke nodded acknowledgement, grinning broadly, and turned back around just as Leslie noticed Tattoo put a hand to his mouth and half lean over the side of the outrigger. "Boss…"

Again Roarke looked back at his call, and Tattoo begged, "Slow down, please…don't make so many big waves!" Leslie could have sworn he actually turned a little green, leaning over the side again, and she started to laugh, the sound mingling with Roarke's own amusement. He pushed the motor a little more and sent them almost rocketing out of the inlet on their way home, laughing in spite of himself as Tattoo stuck his oar in the water in a vain attempt to slow down their rapid progress.

§ § § -- September 24, 1979

The rover pulled up and discharged Myra Kolinsky and Gladys Boyling, and Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie returned their smiles. "Well, ladies, was your fantasy satisfactory?" Roarke inquired, ever the accommodating host.

"Only partially, Mr. Roarke," Gladys admitted.

"It ended too soon," Myra clarified with a rueful smile. "But that wasn't your fault."

Tattoo smiled. "I'm sorry you'll be the only ones boarding the plane…but we do have a couple of more important guests."

"Yes," Roarke said, "several other fantasizers will be returning with you."

"That's okay," Myra said, and then she and Gladys took second looks at Roarke's gesture. Leslie grinned; she had figured it would end like this. The two "Civil War soldiers" with whom Myra and Gladys had fallen in love, now dressed in modern-day clothing, were approaching them from a path, headed for the plane dock themselves.

"I don't believe it!" Gladys exclaimed.

"You?" Myra added, watching her boyfriend peel off what turned out to be a fake mustache. The young man grinned as he paused by her side.

"Yup. You see, my mother was always a real nut about _Gone With the Wind_. By the time I was eight, she kept telling me that I looked like Rhett Butler." He looked at Roarke and laughed self-deprecatingly, putting his arms around Myra.

His friend nodded. "And I heard I looked like Ashley for so long that we had to live it, just once."

Roarke nodded understanding, and they made their farewells, returning their guests' waves and beaming after them. "Pretty cool," Leslie said. "I figured they'd get their guys for real in the end. One thing I've learned is that you can never resist a happy ending."

"Indeed, young lady!" Roarke retorted, but he grinned.

"So what did it feel like to be a god, anyway?" Leslie teased Tattoo.

Roarke chuckled and put in, "Yes, my friend, I hope you aren't too disappointed that your reign as a love god was rather brief."

Tattoo seemed philosophical. "Well, I'm not disappointed at all. As a matter of fact, I think I'm much more mature now, after my fantasy." This caused Roarke and Leslie to give him odd looks and then direct skeptical glances at each other.

"More mature?" echoed Roarke. "You?"

Tattoo nodded. "Before I was Nui Oh'wi, the only things I thought about were wild girls, wild parties…"

Roarke feigned disbelief. "No!"

Tattoo obviously saw through his playacting, and shot Leslie a look designed to squelch her snickering, though of course it didn't work. To Roarke he said, "Now I'm into a much more serious hobby."

"Oh?" Roarke prompted.

"No way," Leslie scoffed, still laughing. "What?"

"Stamp-collecting," said Tattoo.

"Well!" responded Roarke, duly impressed. "Stamp-collecting offers many educational possibilities, yes."

"And I'm gonna take full advantage of it," Tattoo added, basking in Roarke's approval, just before an Asian girl in Roarke's vast stable of island employees trotted eagerly up to pause beside him.

"Please, Mr. Tattoo, will you teach me now?" she asked brightly, in a heavy Chinese accent. Tattoo turned around and tried to shush her.

Roarke eyed her oddly. "Teach you what, Aurelia?"

The girl beamed, completely ignoring Tattoo's desperate efforts to keep her quiet. "To play a great new game Tattoo told me about. It's called 'post office'."

"You have _got_ to be kidding," Leslie pronounced, staring reproachfully at Tattoo, who tried and utterly failed to look innocent before grabbing the girl's hand and towing her away with him. Roarke, watching them go, let his reproving look give way to quiet laughter.

§ § § -- July 4, 2006

"What's 'post office'?" Rory asked, predictably.

"You don't want to know," chorused Rogan, Julie, Leslie and Christian, all in nearly perfect unison. Roarke laughed.

"Yes I do," Rory protested.

"You're not old enough to know the answer to that," Julie informed him with a strong tone of finality in her voice. "We are hereby changing the subject."

"Agreed," said Rogan, unmoved by his son's resigned, disappointed sigh. "Now here's something I've wanted to ask you for a long time, Leslie. Did you ever once find yourself forced to miss a weekend of fantasies for any reason?"

"Once," Leslie said, nodding. "Just once and that's it—I always tried not to let anything get to me that much after that, because I hated missing out. But as it turned out, it was a very lucky thing I did miss that weekend."

"Oh?" Christian prompted. "Why?"

"Because I made a mistake, and things became very dangerous," Roarke said, looking ever so slightly sheepish. "And it all began with one overly ambitious young woman."

§ § § -- November 29, 1980

They watched a disheveled-looking fellow somewhere in his late thirties step out of the seaplane's hatch, grinning with a mixture of anticipation and mild embarrassment, stuffing one of his shirttails back into his pants. He looked self-conscious, if not altogether ill at ease. "Oh boy," Tattoo remarked disparagingly, "here comes a real wimp."

Leslie, squinting painfully in the bright tropical sun, released a startled, explosive snicker; Roarke nodded absently, before Tattoo's comment sank in and he frowned, mildly confused. "I am not positive what you mean by the word 'wimp', Tattoo," he said, "but if it indicates total inadequacy in dealing with members of the female sex, then yes…Mr. Stanley Hocker, of Steubenville, Ohio, is indeed a…uh, what is that again?…"

"Wimp," Tattoo supplied willingly.

"A wimp," Roarke conceded.

"What's his fantasy, boss?" Tattoo queried.

"To be a hot stud, probably," Leslie said with a smirk.

"Well done, if somewhat colloquially put," Roarke said, fielding her grin. "Mr. Hocker wishes to transform his blushes, fumbles and stumbles into what he considers to be the ultimate figure of male dominance. His fantasy is to be…" Here he grinned, as if not entirely sure he himself could grant this fantasy. "…a gigolo."

Leslie sneezed loudly and hard, making Roarke and Tattoo both stare at her. She gave Roarke a disbelieving look, trying to divert attention from the sneeze. "From a wimp to a gigolo in sixty seconds, huh? This I've got to see."

Tattoo regarded Hocker, then said, "Good luck, boss."

"Yes," Roarke murmured, "yes…this fantasy may be somewhat of a challenge…" He cleared his throat, cast one last searching look at his ward, then redirected his attention back to the plane dock, out of necessity. "Miss Lorraine Peters," he introduced the voluptuous blonde woman advancing down the dock on the arm of a slim, mustachioed man, "a very successful attorney and criminologist."

"Criminologist?" repeated Tattoo, interest piqued.

Roarke nodded. "And the gentleman with her is Mr. Robert West, her law partner."

"She's a lawyer?" Tattoo said, as if he couldn't get his mind around the concept. Leslie had to admit that Lorraine Peters didn't look much like her idea of a lawyer, but she was willing to be educated, despite her aching muscles, her sudden odd sensitivity to sunlight and the mild sore throat that she'd awakened with that morning. She had hoped that her guardian and Tattoo wouldn't notice anything amiss; she had peered at herself in the mirror and decided she looked normal enough. These sneezes were going to give her away if she wasn't careful, she thought worriedly.

Roarke nodded. "Miss Peters has evolved a theory which she believes solves the identity of the infamous Whitechapel murderer."

"Whitechapel?" Leslie repeated blankly.

Tattoo had the expression of someone scouring his memory, and she could see when he hit on the answer. "You mean, Jack the Ripper?"

"Precisely, Tattoo. Her fantasy is to go back in time to London of 1888, so she can prove her theory in order to incorporate it into a book she is writing on the subject."

"But boss…she could end up to be one of his victims!" Tattoo protested.

"That thought has occurred to me also, Tattoo." Before he or the others could speculate any further, Roarke's drink arrived and he raised it in the weekly greeting. They all saw Stanley Hocker lift his drink in the direction of the native girls lining the docking ramp from the charter, as if he thought Roarke's voice had originated therefrom, and looked at one another in amused incredulity. Then, in spite of her best efforts, Leslie sneezed again, earning Tattoo's bewildered attention and a very curious glance from Roarke before he focused once more on his guests.

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke urged the nervous Ohioan to have a seat, which he did with some care, cradling a coffee cup. "You know, it's quite normal for inexperienced men to be apprehensive about meeting women. Perhaps you could solve your problem by simply learning to relax, to trust your natural personality."

"What personality?" Hocker asked, more in resignation than anything else. "At school my class voted me the Man Most Likely to be Forgotten. No, let's face it, Mr. Roarke, the only way I'm gonna make out with the girls is with your help." Leslie admitted privately to herself that she had to agree with him, judging from the way he was dressed: in a loud faux-Hawaiian shirt and yellow shorts, with green dress socks and beige loafers.

Roarke set his cup on the round table around which they sat and arose. "Very well, Mr. Hocker." Leslie remained where she was, her muscles protesting too much to allow her to get to her feet and follow as she would otherwise have done, while Hocker and Tattoo got up and trailed him to a large oil portrait hanging on the wall of Hocker's bungalow. "This is a very rare painting of an eighteenth-century nobleman known to the world as Don Juan."

"The world's greatest lover," Tattoo said with a grin.

"Yes." Roarke moved away from the painting so Hocker could approach and examine it more closely. "Some say his romantic power was derived by magic, through an ancient gold bracelet forged by a sorcerer whose name is lost in the mists of legend."

"This bracelet? In the painting?" Hocker asked, indicating the broad gold band on the wrist of the man in the portrait. It was such an obvious piece of jewelry that Leslie could clearly see it even from where she sat across the room.

"No, Mr. Hocker…the bracelet on your wrist." Hocker lifted his right arm, which was bare, and then his left arm—which had suddenly acquired a large gold bracelet identical to the one in the painting. Hocker stared in amazement at it, then at the painting, whose bracelet had indeed vanished. "Please notice the delicacy, the intricacy of the design."

"Then it's…the same?" Hocker exclaimed.

Roarke nodded, smiling. "With the same power, Mr. Hocker. You are now eminently qualified to attract women in profusion."

Hocker seemed dubious, to Leslie's surprise. He peered at the bracelet again, then looked up and asked, "Is that all there is to it?"

"Look in the mirror," Tattoo suggested, gesturing.

Hocker went to the mirror that hung beside the portrait and peered at himself, then gasped, his jaw dropping. Roarke stepped aside for Tattoo, revealing Hocker to Leslie's view, and she blinked and grinned a little. Hocker's attire had been neatly replaced with a black jacket and gray slacks, along with a white shirt unbuttoned to halfway down his chest; he was wearing a couple of gold chains around his neck. Entranced, he approached the mirror and gaped at himself in delighted wonder. "I'm not a turkey anymore." He faced them and announced proudly, "I'm a _hunk!"_ Leslie's grin got bigger, even though it hurt.

Roarke's eyes widened and he neatly hid his own amusement. "Indeed!" As Hocker gave in to the temptation to peer at himself once more, he continued, "Oh…our hotel and lounge, here on the north shore of the island, are very popular with the ladies—an excellent testing ground for your new skills!"

Hocker beamed. "The day is young and filled with beautiful women…and I'm gonna give all of them a chance…" Again he eyed himself in the mirror. "…at the new me."

Roarke smiled. "Wonderful. I wish you the best of luck. Will you please excuse us?" He gestured to Leslie, who pushed herself painfully to her feet and tried to keep from groaning in the process. Still, she didn't escape Roarke's notice, though Hocker was too busy admiring his reflection and Tattoo looked too amused at the whole thing to pay attention.

They returned to the main house on foot; Leslie was a little less achy when they got there, as if her muscles had been loosened up somewhat by the exercise. But she squinted so hard all the way there that she could barely see at times, and was quietly relieved whenever they moved through shady areas. She was even more relieved to see Lorraine Peters sitting in one of the club chairs in front of Roarke's desk when they walked in; Mana'olana had evidently provided her with refreshments while they were seeing to Stanley Hocker, as she was sipping a cup of tea. She smiled when they came in.

"I hope you haven't been waiting long, Miss Peters," Roarke said, settling behind the desk while Leslie took her usual chair at his right and Tattoo paused in front of it.

"No, but…Mr. Roarke, what about my fantasy?" Lorraine asked, getting directly to the point. Roarke's expression grew pensive.

"It's a very difficult fantasy, Miss Peters…I would even say a most dangerous one," he said, studying his templed hands.

"Especially when you're so pretty," Tattoo added gravely, his round face a mask of deep concern as he regarded Lorraine. "Jack the Ripper didn't like pretty ladies at all."

Lorraine smiled indulgently. "I'm aware of the dangers, Tattoo." She appealed to Roarke. "I've been researching my book for years. I know Jack the Ripper killed girls of the streets, prostitutes. All I need is proof—proof that I can get only by going back to that exact period of time. I know who Jack the Ripper was."

Her quiet certainty met with Roarke's stern regard. "Which could put you in even greater danger. No, for your own sake, I must urge you to reconsider."

Lorraine sighed impatiently. "Mr. Roarke, don't you see? I've solved the world's greatest murder mystery. Please let me prove it."

Roarke seemed to be digging in his heels. "I insist. I don't think—"

"Please, Mr. Roarke!" Lorraine broke in. "Please?"

"You ought to be scared stupid of going back and facing that guy," Leslie ventured, speaking for the first time since they'd left the plane dock. "Especially since you're planning on going there all by yourself." She caught the scratchiness of her own voice and hoped desperately that Roarke and Tattoo didn't.

"I know what I'm doing, Leslie," Lorraine assured her with a maternal smile that to Leslie looked a little patronizing. "I've been preparing for this for years now." She winked at the girl, then shifted her pleading gaze back to Roarke, who stared at her dubiously for a long ten seconds or so before giving in at last.

"Very well, Miss Peters…very well," he acceded reluctantly and gestured to the time-travel room. Tattoo nodded and led the way; again Leslie remained seated, unwilling for more than one reason to accompany her guardian. Roarke arose and addressed their guest with, "Will you come this way, please?"

They left the door open, and from Leslie's point of view she could see Tattoo standing beside it, looking anxious. Roarke disappeared behind it, but she could still hear his voice explaining, "This is a very special door, Miss Peters." Leslie knew there was a second door at right angles to the one from the study, painted white and carved in an unusual diamond-shaped design, placed there just for this fantasy. "It can be caused to open into the past. I warn you, this door is the only means by which you can return here; so it is vital that you note its precise—_precise_—location after you step through."

After a moment Lorraine's response came through, muted: "I will. But first I want to change my clothes; I brought some things I thought might be appropriate."

Leslie barely heard Roarke's reply of "Very well." By now her muscles ached so much that she suddenly no longer cared whether he and Tattoo noticed, and stared dully at the doorway as her guardian appeared therein and added, "And Miss Peters…good luck."

Roarke let Tattoo out ahead of him and pulled the door shut behind him, stopping in surprise when he saw Leslie sitting listlessly in her chair. "Are you all right?"

"No," she admitted and stared at him. "I think I'm sick."

Roarke's expression grew concerned and he approached her, looking her carefully over while Tattoo paused in front of the desk and looked on. "What exactly are you feeling right now?" Roarke questioned.

"Sore throat, really achy muscles—it even hurts to smile. And I have to squint so much going outside that I can barely keep my eyes open enough to see."

Roarke placed a hand on each side of her face and tilted her head back to look into her eyes, then frowned. "Were your eyes this bloodshot when you awoke this morning, Leslie? Did you note any visible discrepancies?"

"They're bloodshot?" Leslie asked, startled. "I looked at myself in the mirror after I got up, but I didn't see anything weird. I felt bad, but not so bad that I wanted to stay home."

"What about now?" Tattoo put in.

"It's getting worse," she confessed through a sigh. "I just want to go to sleep."

"Perhaps that's the best thing for you," Roarke said. "Go on upstairs and change into your nightwear, and I'll give Dr. Wayne a call and see if he can come to examine you. However, my guess is measles, judging from your symptoms."

In the middle of painfully pushing herself up from her chair, Leslie froze and gawked at him. "How can it be measles? You made me go for booster shots the first week after I came to this island. Wouldn't that include measles?"

"It should have," Roarke said, thinking back with a deep frown. "I recall that we took you to the hospital to have it done, because Dr. Wayne couldn't get you in that week, and it was necessary to have your shots up-to-date before you could be enrolled in school here. It appears to me that whoever administered the boosters failed to do a thorough job. I'll look into it when I have a chance, but for now there's no point in lamenting what's already been done. Upstairs with you, Leslie Susan, and into bed. I'll have Mana'olana bring something for you to keep your throat moist, and otherwise you should sleep if you can."

"Okay," Leslie agreed dully and straightened up. "Ow. I can't believe how much I hurt. I feel like I just spent ten straight hours exercising."

Roarke chuckled. "If you need help getting up the stairs, let me know."

Leslie managed to make it to bed under her own steam, but it took her most of ten minutes to change into her most comfortable sleepwear and crawl into her bed. Tattoo came up a couple of minutes after she'd settled down and peered at her, his dark eyes alight with worry. "We'll have to be really careful with you," he observed. "Measles. I thought nobody ever got that anymore."

"Me too," mumbled Leslie. "Or at least, I never thought about it."

"Well, the boss'll look into it," he said comfortingly. "Can I do anything for you?"

"Well…maybe you could pull down the shade," Leslie ventured hesitantly. "I don't want to put you out or anything, but it's just too bright in here."

"No problem," Tattoo assured her and did as she requested. "Anything else?"

"No," she murmured. "I guess I'll be okay otherwise. Thanks, Tattoo."

He surveyed her and slowly shook his head. "Dr. Wayne should be here soon, so you just rest. Try to get some sleep." He patted her arm, then departed.

It was over three hours later before Dr. Wayne arrived at the main house and checked Leslie over; by that time, she had begun to develop the characteristic spotted rash of measles, so that it took him only a few questions and a minute or so to diagnose her. "It's measles all right, Mr. Roarke," he said and straightened up. "She's got the rash on her face and neck now, and within a day or so it's likely to have spread all over her body. Just keep her in bed and quiet, let her sleep all she wants, and give her some cough medicine according to the directions on the bottle. Plenty of fluids." He looked at the girl. "Light still bothering you, Leslie? I see the shade's down."

"Yeah, right now light hurts my eyes," she said. "I've never felt so tired or achy in my life. It's like I'm drooping."

Dr. Wayne grinned. "Measles will do that to you. Gotta admit, this is very unusual. You don't see too many cases of measles these days, with vaccinations and all."

Roarke nodded and said, "It's my suspicion that when she received her boosters at the hospital the first week she was here, they weren't complete, and she apparently fell victim to some infection, most likely at school."

"There's an exchange student in the senior class," Leslie offered. "From Peru. I heard she was out with measles all this past week. Probably that's how I got it."

"Seems as likely a source as any other," Dr. Wayne agreed. "Well, all right. Just stay in bed, Leslie. Call it an excuse to be lazy and sleep as much as you want." They all laughed, and Dr. Wayne departed along with Tattoo, who would let him out.

Roarke settled down on the side of her bed. "Do you feel up to eating anything? If not, I'll notify Mana'olana accordingly."

"Not right now, I guess. Maybe I'll feel hungrier around suppertime, but I guess it's like Dr. Wayne said—the best thing for me is sleep." She sighed and met his gaze. "But it's still disappointing…having to miss out on the rest of the weekend. I hope you and Tattoo come in sometimes and tell me how things are going."

Roarke chuckled. "Very well, we will. For now, you'd better get some sleep. I have a few rounds to make, and I'll check in on you when I get back."


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- November 29, 1980

As it turned out, Leslie slept through the rest of the afternoon and right through the evening meal as well. Roarke looked in on her one more time before leaving Tattoo in charge for an hour or so and embarking on another set of rounds that took him to the lounge he had earlier mentioned to Stanley Hocker. Pausing in the lobby to check on the guest roster, he heard a voice call his name and looked up to see the selfsame Hocker sprinting in his direction, followed closely by a waiter who kept repeating in consternation, "Sir…sir…"

"Mr. Roarke, am I glad to see you," Hocker said with clear relief, grinning hopefully at him. "There's been a…a slight misunderstanding about the check…"

Roarke glanced at the waiter in surprise and then back at Hocker. "The check?"

"Yes. I—I—I thought the ladies were…well, you know. I mean, after all, they were…swarming like bees around a hive." Hocker chuckled with self-pride, then peered at Roarke and added, "Well, I _am_ a gigolo."

Roarke smiled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hocker, but it's your responsibility to make arrangements with your lady friends in advance, if you expect them to pay your expenses." He glanced at the waiting steward, then drew his guest aside and explained, "I have provided you with the attractiveness and the charm which you requested, have I not?" Hocker made a motion of concession, and Roarke nodded and said, "Well, underwriting your expenditures is definitely not part of your fantasy."

Hocker looked stricken. "And here I was just getting to the fantastic part."

Just then another voice called, "Stanley." Both Hocker and Roarke looked around to see a tall, graying, good-looking man wearing black slacks, a pink shirt and a shiny dark-blue jacket approaching them, a suave little smile on his face. "Please, allow me." He took the check from the waiter and counted out the total amount for the bill, which had come out to a whopping $738. "There you go."

"Thank you, sir," the waiter said, with one slightly raised brow, but pushed the issue no further and left with the money.

Hocker, deeply relieved, burst into self-conscious chuckles and exclaimed, "Thanks…I mean, _thank you_!" His unexpected benefactor shrugged and smiled self-deprecatingly. "Well. All's well that ends well, right, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke, who had been silently watching the whole encounter, tossed Hocker an unreadable glance and responded, "I sincerely hope so, Mr. Hocker. Will you excuse me?" He made his exit, heading for the back of the lounge to confer with the manager.

Meanwhile, Tattoo was alone in the study with Leslie still awake upstairs, reading by the gentle light of a flashlight in order to keep from irritating her light-sensitive eyes. She was beginning to doze off from time to time, with the house so quiet, and kept catching herself falling asleep. Her brain shifted into a higher gear and she woke fully when she heard the phone ring downstairs; a moment later Tattoo's voice answered, "Hello?…No, the boss is not here." He waited a moment, and then Leslie heard him ask, "You want me to approve the menu? Sure, no problem. Yeah, I'll be there right away. Okay, goodbye."

Leslie heard him leave the house without calling out to her; she didn't blame him, since he undoubtedly thought she was asleep. She knew she should have been, but after all the quiet, her afternoon-long nap, and now this interruption, she was irretrievably awake. She shifted into a more comfortable position and was settling back down to read some more when the phone rang again, making her sit up slightly. Should she answer it?

The phone rang a second time—then a third ring was cut off in the middle, followed almost immediately by a click indicating the receiver had been dropped back onto the hook. Leslie froze, her blood turning into ice water, and shut off the flashlight, sliding back into bed and holding herself as still as possible. _Someone's in the house!_ she thought frantically. _Oh, why did it have to be now, with Mr. Roarke out and Tattoo just now gone?_

Heart thumping away in her ears at fantastic rates, her breathing shallow and fear turning her stomach inside-out, she listened, straining her ears for any other sounds. _Please, please, whatever you do, please, don't come upstairs,_ she begged silently. _Or else I'll give you a good solid dose of my measles…_

Outside she heard the soft drone of one of the candy-striped rovers approaching the house, and a moment later, its departure. This was followed by a soft _snick_ that she recognized as someone rapidly closing shutter slats. Moments slipped by; a footstep hit the floor, so softly that it would have been lost had there been any other sound in the house. And then there came the barest murmur of a voice: "What is this place?…"

Terrified, Leslie held her breath, afraid that even this would be audible to the unknown intruder. _Go away,_ she cried silently. _Get out of here already!_

After several long, interminable minutes, she heard one footstep, then another, then another, slowly crossing the floor. She was convinced they were getting louder, approaching the staircase, and she whimpered with pure fright before she could stop herself. Her fear exploded to new heights and she buried her face in her pillow to stop any more telltale sounds. Utter silence held sway downstairs.

Just when she was positive she was going to expire of terror, the footsteps began to cross the floor again, this time with somewhat more purpose. Finally, she heard the inner-foyer door open, then close, and released an explosive breath. She had to tell Roarke!

She lay awake for more than two hours anticipating his return, but neither he nor Tattoo came back, and she ended up falling asleep in spite of herself. But her dreams were riddled with fiery nightmares all night long.

§ § § -- November 30, 1980

She awoke the following morning feeling unaccountably nervous; her stomach would have rejected anything she tried to put into it, she was that queasy from last night's events and her leftover fright. Fortunately, she could hear her guardian and his assistant moving around in the study downstairs, and such relief swamped her that she forced her protesting muscles into action and got out of bed, getting into a robe and slippers and making her way slowly down the stairs.

As she hit the second step, she heard Tattoo's voice ask, "What's that on your chair over there?" She pushed herself a little more, taking each step carefully, now able to see Roarke and Tattoo move over to the desk and lift what appeared to be a voluminous sheet of black fabric off the chair and examine it.

"It's a cape," Roarke said after a moment.

"But boss, who would wear a cape like this on Fantasy Island?" Tattoo asked.

Roarke glanced at him, then spotted his ward standing on the stairs. "Leslie, what are you doing out of bed?"

"Hey, go back up right now," Tattoo scolded avuncularly.

"I would, but…I had to tell you something." Leslie hugged herself. "That cape must belong to that guy I heard moving around down here last night."

Roarke's gaze sharpened. "What 'guy'?"

She explained rapidly what she had heard the previous night, and Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other; but neither had time to comment before the door to the time-travel room burst open and they all three looked around to see who it was. Lorraine Peters, dressed in a green-striped, low-cut gown trimmed with a black feather boa, let herself in, her face wreathed in smiles. "Miss Peters! We were worried about you," Tattoo said.

She grinned sheepishly and went to the desk. "Would you believe I spent the whole night in a police station?"

"Police station?" Tattoo echoed, voicing Roarke's look of mild, quizzical surprise.

"Yes," Lorraine said, digging into a clutch and extracting a sheaf of small pages. "But I got everything I need. It's all here—letters, documents, family papers, diaries…" She handed Roarke one of the items, while Tattoo watched and Leslie leaned over the banister, partly for support and partly to see what he was looking at. "Look, here's a letter. It shows that Albert Fell was abandoned by his mother when he was just a little boy." Roarke lifted the letter and scanned it as she spoke. "She became a prostitute, and she was blackmailing his father for years just to keep the secret."

"A terrible tragedy for a child," murmured Roarke.

"Yes. The final blow came on the day of Albert Fell's graduation from medical school, when his father could no longer bear the shame." Lorraine gave Roarke another document. "He committed suicide. But he wrote that letter of explanation for his son. It's all there…the whole sordid story."

"You do seem to have established a motive," Roarke said, voice low and expressionless, going over the pages she had handed him.

"But there's more," Lorraine said, now presenting him with a small book. "This diary, describing his hatred of his mother and of all women." She watched Roarke look through a couple of entries before taking it back. "And the last entry in the diary: 'For every year of my father's shame, and of my degradation, another harlot shall die. Tonight will be the fifth.' "

Roarke took the book back, read over the words written there, then frowned and admitted, "It appears you have proven your case beyond any doubt, Miss Peters."

Lorraine sounded a little haunted when she spoke again. "The frightening thing is that I saw that fifth victim. I even spoke with her." She seemed to shake off a shudder and went on, "I might even have seen him…but I was so shocked…" Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other; Leslie gripped the banister railing, sharply watching and listening to everything. Lorraine half shrugged. "Well, a man brushed by me. I hardly noticed him…but he _was_ carrying a doctor's bag."

Roarke glanced once more at Tattoo and then at Leslie, before appearing to make a split-second decision and turning to lift a black top hat out of the chair where he had hidden it when Lorraine first walked in. "Did he wear a hat, and a cape, like this?" He displayed the latter item at Lorraine, whose face slowly filled with shock and alarm. And then Roarke showed her an item even Leslie hadn't seen: a pair of white gloves, one of which bore a fairly fresh bloodstain. Leslie's eyes went huge and fixed on them.

"I am very much afraid that Jack the Ripper found your gateway back here and is, at this very moment, loose on Fantasy Island," Roarke said, tone quiet and ominous.

Lorraine's horror gleamed out of her blue eyes. "Mr. Roarke…he might kill someone," she breathed, her voice trembling slightly. "And it would be my fault…"

No one spoke, and the criminologist closed her eyes and turned away, making a beeline for the door. She slammed it on the way out; still no one said anything. Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other.

Leslie heard a high-pitched whimper, but didn't realize she had emitted it till Roarke and Tattoo shifted their attention simultaneously to her. "What's wrong?" Roarke asked.

"Th-that means Jack the Ripper was down here last night," she bleated. "And all the time I was lying in my bed upstairs. I was scared to death he would come up…"

"Did he?" Tattoo demanded, horrified.

"No," Leslie said, shaking her head so hard it looked more like a shudder. "But I was lying there all that time listening to him moving around down here. If he'd come up…" She couldn't finish the sentence, but squeezed her eyes shut and clung to the banister, her knees beginning to go out from under her.

"He could have killed Leslie!" Tattoo burst out. "Do you think he would have, boss?"

"It's a distinct possibility," Roarke admitted heavily, dropping the gloves onto the desk and going to the staircase. "We are all very fortunate that he decided not to bother investigating the second floor." He climbed the steps and gathered Leslie into his embrace, where she lost the last remnants of her shattered composure and began to cry. "It's all right, child, you're safe now. You did exactly the right thing—extinguished all light and remained as quiet as you possibly could. It's all right now."

"I kept waiting for you and Tattoo to come back," she sobbed. "I thought you were never coming home. I fell asleep waiting. I was afraid he'd come back before you did…"

Roarke closed his eyes for a moment, then cast Tattoo a glance. "Please, my friend, would you do me a great favor and stay with Leslie this morning? Knowing what we know now, I don't dare leave her alone, even here in the house, hidden away in her own bedroom. Jack the Ripper's hatred for females may well have been such that he would not discriminate even on the basis of age. Leslie is only fifteen, but very much old enough to run the risk of becoming one of his victims. I won't have that. I made her mother a promise, and I fully intend to keep it. No matter what else, she is to remain safe."

"Of course, boss, I'll be glad to stay with her," Tattoo said immediately. "There's a phone in your room, isn't there? If we hear him come back, I can go in and call the police."

Roarke nodded. "Good, my friend, thank you. All right, Leslie, come back up now, I think you'd better get back into bed. You're still sick, after all."

Back in bed, propped up against her pillows, Leslie brushed aside the last of her tears and peered up at her guardian. "You _are_ coming back here, Mr. Roarke, aren't you?"

He smiled at her. "Of course, Leslie. I do have some essential rounds to make this morning, but I'll be back in time for lunch, and then I'll remain here during the afternoon to do some paperwork. Tattoo can handle whatever needs to be done then."

"Got it, boss," Tattoo agreed readily, making himself comfortable in the rocking chair in the corner of Leslie's room. "But you be careful too."

Roarke smiled. "I always am, my friend. I'll see you both later."

When he had left, Leslie looked at Tattoo. "When did you find the hat and cape and those gloves?"

"Just before you came down the stairs," Tattoo said. "You probably slept through breakfast. I met the boss here for that, and we came back inside to start the day's business and then saw the stuff. Why?"

"Weird that he would've left them here," Leslie mused.

"Mmm," Tattoo murmured agreement. "If he knew he was going to be detected at some point, he should have known better than to leave clues like that. Wonder why?"

She considered it. "They dressed really conservatively in the 1880s, didn't they? Full formal suits under capes, and the hats and gloves and things like that? It's a lot warmer here than in London. He probably took off the cape and stuff because he was getting too hot wearing all those layers, and forgot he left them here."

"Good detective work," Tattoo said with a grin. "Yeah, I think you're right. Well, look, there's no point worrying about it now."

"But why not? Jack the Ripper could be stalking a woman someplace around here as we speak," Leslie protested.

Tattoo shook his head. "I don't know. I mean, something tells me he's disoriented from being in a strange place—almost a hundred years in his future too, don't forget, so he's even more confused. Not that we shouldn't be careful, but I think he's going to try to get a bead on his surroundings before he does anything. He wants to be familiar enough with the area to find some good hiding places where he can disappear in a hurry after he commits a crime. Now, I don't know how long that would take, but we have at least a little time on account of that. So that'll give us time to put out a general warning that women on the island should try to be on the lookout for a man dressed in old-fashioned clothes, carrying a doctor's bag, and stay out of his way. And to never be alone, no matter what."

Leslie sighed. "I wish I could let you do whatever you have to and call my friends up, and have them come over and keep me company. We might all be girls, but you just said there's safety in numbers, so we'd probably be fine if they were all here."

Tattoo grinned and observed, "You probably would, but I think the boss has in mind that promise he made your mother. He probably thinks that if a bunch of girls are good protection, a man would be even better."

"Maybe," Leslie said and smiled. "Oh well…so what's been going on with Stanley Hocker's fantasy, anyway?"

They chatted the morning away, and Leslie felt well enough to have a little lunch; then Tattoo left, and Roarke remained in the study while Leslie read till she fell asleep. She slept through most of the remainder of the afternoon, which was fine with Roarke—until it turned out that he had to make a check on Stanley Hocker, and Tattoo was still out rounding up all the female resort employees for their own safety, on Roarke's order. He went out to the kitchen and asked one of Mana'olana's helpers, a woman in her early thirties named Mariki who cleaned the main house each week as well as working in the kitchen, to do some extra spot-cleaning in the study and upstairs, in order to give Leslie some protection in case Jack the Ripper should happen to return.

"Be happy to, Mr. Roarke," Mariki said. "And don't worry, I know a few moves that'll take that man down in a hurry if he tries anything on Miss Leslie." She marched off into the study with purpose, and Roarke grinned broadly after her before taking his leave and going directly to Stanley Hocker's bungalow.

As it happened, he met Tattoo on the way and got a report from him that the women in Roarke's employ were gathering at the hotel at speed; relieved, Roarke thanked him and then drove with him to the North Shore Bungalow, a two-story cottage with its living quarters on the top floor and the sleeping rooms below. Stanley Hocker was pacing the floor, and when he let Roarke and Tattoo in he lit up like a searchlight. "Oh, terrific…I'm glad you're here…I need some advice, and fast. Come in and sit down."

"Advice?" Roarke queried, making himself comfortable in an armchair. Tattoo stood nearby and watched Hocker resume his pacing.

"Yeah…it's about a lady, a beautiful, wonderful lady named Dina DeWinter. The, uh, the guy you saw me with last night? His name's Monty, and he's a _real_ gigolo, a professional one. Well, he got me to agree to a scheme where he romances Dina while I take his place entertaining Dina's Aunt Jessie. I agreed to it at first, because I was hoping I could maybe get to know Dina better, you know? Except…Monty's coming across as a regular guy and passing me off as the cynical, money-grubbing gigolo, and Dina's fallen like a rock for every word he says. I think she's actually looking at him as potential marriage material." He took in his hosts' expressions. "You just gotta do something to help me."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hocker, but I have no right to interfere with Miss DeWinter's choice of a husband," Roarke informed him, gently but firmly.

"Why don't you just tell her about him?" Tattoo offered.

Hocker threw his hands in the air. "She won't listen to me! And I can't blame her. I mean, look at me…Mr. Smooth and his magic bracelet."

"So you've discovered that a woman is not, after all, an object to be used, but is quite possibly a person, with her own unique qualities and sensibilities, huh?" Roarke remarked.

Hocker gave him a shamefaced look and bobbed his head in self-disgust. "I deserved that, Mr. Roarke. But it was just a fantasy with me. It-it's reality with Monty, and I'm not gonna let him hurt her!"

"If she won't talk to you, how're you gonna stop him?" Tattoo wanted to know.

Hocker got a determined look about him. "I'll think of a way." He stared at the painting in the corner, then remarked, "You're right, Mr. Roarke. We are, each of us, unique." He went over to stand next to the portrait. "We've just got to learn to make the most of what we've got. And I'm gonna start right now. From scratch."

Roarke watched him, a small, knowing smile on his face; then, as Hocker turned to regard the painting, Fantasy Island's enigmatic host narrowed his eyes and concentrated carefully on Don Juan's painted wrist. In just a few seconds, the bracelet that had been on Hocker's wrist reappeared on Don Juan's.

Hocker looked down at himself; he was dressed in the same clothes he'd been wearing when he first arrived on the island, and his hair was a little mussed, though perhaps not as disheveled as he'd been on the plane dock. But Hocker seemed satisfied with his old look. Grinning, he said, "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a debt to settle." And he left.

Roarke and Tattoo watched him depart, smiled at each other with satisfaction, and got up to leave. As they pulled the bungalow door closed behind them, they both noticed that it was just past sunset now; Roarke took out his gold pocket watch and noted the time, then frowned. "We'd better get over to the hotel and make certain that everyone is there, as I requested. Then I believe it might be prudent to give the local constabulary some instructions in regard to locating Dr. Fell, so that he may be returned to his proper place in the timeline." Tattoo nodded.

"Boss, what about Leslie?" he wanted to know.

"I made certain that she has protection," Roarke assured him. "She'll be just fine. Come with me, please, and we'll count heads and make the necessary preparations."

By the time they had ascertained that all female employees were in the hotel dining room and had finished briefing Sheriff Tokita and several of his best officers, it was full dark and well past seven-thirty. "I believe that's all we can do," Roarke concluded, looking around the room. "It's best if you ladies remain here, where you form a group too large for Dr. Fell to overcome alone. Sheriff, officers, thank you for your time and assistance. I had better return to the main house…Leslie has come down with measles, and I don't think it wise that she remain in the house alone. Tattoo?"


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- November 30, 1980

Just at that moment, Leslie was awake again after napping the afternoon away, listening to Mariki concluding her cleaning in the upstairs bathroom. After a minute the wiry young Polynesian woman returned to stand in Leslie's doorway. "Okay in here, Miss Leslie?" she asked, sounding unusually solicitous; Mariki's temper had a somewhat short fuse, and she wasn't known as the friendliest of Roarke's employees, though she always showed respect to her employer and treated Leslie kindly.

"Yeah, just bored," Leslie admitted with a half-smile. "I've run out of books to read, and I've slept too much to be drowsy."

"I understand that," Mariki said and chuckled. "Okay, I'll see if there's anything I can do in Mr. Roarke's room. You keep listening for him and Mr. Tattoo, and let me know when you hear them come back."

"Got it," Leslie agreed, and watched Mariki disappear down the hall. She could just see the door to Roarke's room, which was almost always kept closed; Mariki left it open a few inches when she went inside, and Leslie settled back in the bed, drumming her fingers on the covers and letting her mind wander.

Then she heard the inner-foyer door open and sat up in bed to call out to Mariki; but the scuffling she could hear downstairs kept her silent. Her adrenaline and fear were still on the rise when she heard a woman's voice cry out in pain and desperation, "Please, Mr. Roarke…help me!" It was Lorraine Peters, she realized, and gasped.

She still heard the scuffling, accompanied by two pairs of footsteps, and gripped the edge of her mattress, listening, frozen with the same terror she'd felt the night before and thus too frightened to call out. The noises seemed to recede; faintly she heard Lorraine's plea for help once more before the sounds disappeared entirely.

Mariki emerged from Roarke's room, her face a mask of puzzlement, and came down the hall, then stared at Leslie. "I _did_ hear something. What's the matter?"

"I think Jack the Ripper's back. I heard our guest calling Mr. Roarke to help her, but he isn't back yet." Mariki's presence had given her an enormous measure of relief. "I think they went out through the time-travel room—"

Before she could say any more, they both heard the door downstairs open again, and Mariki peered down the stairwell. "It's Mr. Roarke and Mr. Tattoo," she said and called down, "Mr. Roarke! We're up here!"

"Is everything all right?" they heard his voice from below.

"No," Leslie shouted down from the bed. "Not even a minute ago somebody brought Miss Peters in here—she was yelling for help. I think Jack the Ripper got to her and took her back to London through that special door. They just now got out. You've gotta go after her before he kills her!"

"Tattoo, quickly, go up and stay with Leslie and Mariki. I'll be back momentarily," said Roarke hurriedly, and Tattoo headed directly for the stairs. Roarke paused just long enough to be sure he got up there all right, then swiftly moved through the time-travel room and let himself out the special door, into a characteristically foggy and chilly London night.

He was just in time: Albert Fell had a terrified Lorraine Peters by one arm, so tightly that she couldn't pull herself loose, and was so bent on doing away with her that he made a tactical error. He stopped on the sidewalk, in full view of any witnesses, and lifted a small, sharp, curved silver instrument. "I have the remedy for all your ills, harlot!" he spat.

Roarke lost no time and sprang forward, seizing the hate-crazed doctor by the arm that held the weapon. He stared directly into the man's eyes, a particular purpose about him; Fell, unable to break the gaze, stared back, his face slowly undergoing a metamorphosis from rage to increasing fear, as though he saw his ultimate fate in Roarke's eyes. Lorraine fell back a few steps and watched, amazed and a little confused.

The staredown seemed to last half a century, with Fell looking more and more hypnotized; his left hand slowly opened and the tool it held clattered to the pavement. "Nooo," he moaned at last, shielded his face with the same hand and pulled away from Roarke, fleeing down the foggy street. Neither Roarke nor Lorraine had time to do anything more than react when they saw the man dart into the street, directly into the path of an approaching horse and carriage. Fell saw and heard them, pausing and staring as though caught in automobile headlights. By the time he seemed to find the presence of mind to react, it was too late, and the contraption ran him down as he screamed. It was the last sound he ever made. Lorraine hid her face in Roarke's shoulder.

Roarke looked on in grim silence as the driver of the carriage jumped down and knelt to examine the body on the pavement. A few doors popped open in the immediate vicinity and voices began to rise, asking excited questions. Roarke looked at Lorraine and smiled faintly as a particularly thick tendril of fog hid the gruesome scene from their view.

"Let's go back," he said quietly. "Your fantasy is over now."

"Thank you, Mr. Roarke," Lorraine murmured, shaky with relief, and willingly followed her host back through the door and into the warmth and safety of the main house. Tattoo and Mariki heard their return and both hurried downstairs.

"Are you all right, Miss Peters?" Tattoo asked anxiously.

"Just fine, thanks, Tattoo," Lorraine said and smiled. "Thanks to Mr. Roarke here."

"Good," Tattoo said and smiled broadly back.

Roarke smiled too and addressed Mariki. "Everything is all right; the danger is past," he said. "If you like, you can return home now, and thank you for staying with Leslie."

"I was glad to do it, Mr. Roarke," Mariki said and smiled. "Good night." She departed, and Lorraine left after her, looking pensive and introspective. Roarke let her, knowing she needed time to recover from what Fell had put her through.

"Mr. Roarke?" came Leslie's voice from above, and he and Tattoo grinned at each other and went up to tell her what had happened. Roarke was quietly relieved; his ward would sleep much better tonight!

§ § § -- December 1, 1980

With Leslie still sick in bed and slated to remain home from school for the week, Roarke and Tattoo went without her to the plane dock to see off their guests. Stanley Hocker and Dina DeWinter arrived in the first car, and Roarke was glad to see that Hocker's final attempt to show the lady his true self had succeeded. "Well, I must say, you make a most charming couple," he observed.

"Dina and I are discovering we have a lot in common, Mr. Roarke," Hocker said.

Miss DeWinter smiled. "I can never thank you enough for helping us find out about each other and ourselves."

Tattoo offered, "Sometimes life opens up just like a beautiful flower."

Roarke stared at him, impressed. "Well said, Tattoo! Very good!" Tattoo beamed, and he turned back to their guests. "Oh, Miss DeWinter, is your aunt staying on?"

"She and Monty seem to have worked out some kind of arrangement. They're off to Rome…somewhere." She shrugged and grinned. "She's very happy."

"And so are we," Hocker put in and grinned. They made their farewells, and Roarke and Tattoo watched them depart up the dock to the charter.

The second car discharged Lorraine Peters and Robert West, who paused in front of their hosts; Roarke began, "Ah, Miss Peters, Mr. West…"

"I'm not gonna ask you if you enjoyed your fantasy," Tattoo interjected smoothly, earning himself a rather confused stare from Roarke.

Lorraine, recovered from the previous evening's events, replied, "Well, let's just say it was satisfying, Tattoo." The Frenchman grinned, and she looked at Roarke. "I'm not going to publish my book after all. Just knowing the truth is enough." West looked a little sur-prised at her words, but she merely smiled at him.

Roarke nodded, then remembered something. "Oh…" He withdrew a clipping from an inner pocket of his jacket. "Speaking of truth…here is a news item from the _London Dispatch_ of 1888, which I don't believe you have in your collection." He handed it to Lorraine, who read it over while West looked at it over her shoulder.

" 'Tragedy in Whitechapel'," she read. " 'Dr. Fell, Well-Known Physician, Killed in Accident While on Mission of Charity!' " The last three words came out with gentle irony, and she looked up to meet Roarke's gaze. "Well," she said with a grin, handing the clipping back to him, "we know the truth, don't we, Mr. Roarke? I think it's best we leave it that way. Thank you." They shook hands, said their goodbyes, and Lorraine and West struck off for the dock as Roarke and Tattoo gazed after them. With a soft chuckle, Roarke stashed the clipping back into his pocket, sure that this weekend was one they wouldn't soon forget.

§ § § -- July 4, 2006

Christian actually looked shell-shocked as Roarke wound up the tale. "Imagine if Leslie hadn't contracted that illness…who knows if she would even be alive at this moment!" He pulled himself closer against her and wrapped an arm around her. "Jack the Ripper, of all the past characters who could have come through time…"

"I never actually saw him, my love," Leslie pointed out, trying to reassure him. "I heard him all right, plenty of him. But I never set eyes on him. Not, of course, that I would have wanted to see him. I was scared enough just having to hear him moving around in this room. Yeah, that really was some weekend."

"One of those that tend to stand out in my memory, yes," Roarke agreed with a small ironic smile.

"No wonder." Julie groaned aloud. "Do you realize what he could've done if you hadn't caught up with him?"

"All too well," Roarke assured her. "Now, before you find reason to reprimand me any further for merely having granted the fantasy in the first place, suppose we move on to some-thing else entirely. Something much happier, perhaps?"

"Like the weekend Tattoo met Solange," Leslie offered. "That was when he fell honestly in love for the first time, and got really serious about someone. Not that it quite stopped him from ogling the girls, but he was never as blatant about it after he met Solange, I thought. Do you think so, Father?"

"It occurred to me to notice that as well," Roarke said and chuckled. Between them, he and Leslie related the story of that weekend, making Julie's eyes shine with romantic empathy and Rogan and Christian laugh now and then.

§ § § -- February 16, 1981

For more than three weeks Leslie had been asking the same question of Roarke every afternoon as soon as she got in the door from school: "Is it here yet?" Each time Roarke had had to tell her no; today, before she got the question out of her mouth, he said, "Yes, Leslie, it's finally here. Kali delivered it this morning."

"Oh, great!" she exclaimed, leaping exuberantly off the two steps into the foyer and rushing to Roarke's desk, where a small package bearing the simple address _Leslie Hamilton, Main House, Fantasy Island_ sat. "I can't wait to see the look on Tattoo's face when he opens this one!" she added, dropping her books onto a club chair and pulling away the layers of brown paper that concealed the contents of the package.

"You were fortunate to get those paints at all, you know," Roarke told her. "That's part of why it took so long for them to arrive. In fact, I have it on good authority that it should have taken far longer."

She looked up at him curiously. "Really? Well, maybe they put priority on it because you helped me get it." She smiled at him, and Roarke smiled back, watching her pull off the last of the paper and carefully open the little white cardboard box that was revealed. Inside lay four tubes of paint in rare colors, ordered especially from a tiny artist-supply company in a French-speaking canton of Switzerland which created and mixed all its paints by hand using natural ingredients. Both Roarke and Leslie had been aware for some time that Tattoo had at least a dozen unfinished paintings sitting in the small sunny studio at his cottage, just waiting for what Tattoo called "the right colors". After some less-than-subtle questioning, Leslie had managed to compile a list of the colors Tattoo wanted, and had saved money from Christmas forward so that she could get him the colors he needed the most. Roarke had found the company and had helped her order the paints.

"Oh, Mr. Roarke, look!" she breathed, lifting out a tube of shimmering copper with tiny glints in the paint. "These are gorgeous!" She handed him the first tube and took out a second, a glowing gold that seemed almost to have its own light. She laid this on the desk and extracted the remaining two: a rich, luminous green and a beautiful Caribbean blue just the pale, translucent color of the shallows on Fantasy Island's own beaches. Each color seemed to have a special richness and depth to it that couldn't be achieved by simply mixing ordinary paint colors to create approximations.

"Yes, they were very much worth the price," Roarke agreed, examining the tubes one by one with interest. "There is no doubt in my mind that Tattoo will be delighted with these. Perhaps now," he added, looking up at Leslie with a twinkle in his dark eyes, "he will finally be able to complete all those paintings."

"Yeah!" she agreed, laughing. "I was hoping I could get him that gorgeous sunset red I saw in the catalog, but I had only enough money for these four. Well, maybe he can finish _some_ of those paintings anyway."

Roarke chuckled and opened a drawer, removing another package about the size of the one Leslie had just opened. "As a matter of fact, I acted upon your idea," he told her. "Look inside." He handed her the box, and she opened it to reveal five more tubes, including the vibrant red she had mentioned.

"Oh, he'll be thrilled, Mr. Roarke!" Leslie exclaimed. "I can't wait for Sunday…it'll be so great just to see the look on his face when he sees these. What about the big surprise you're giving him…is it really going to happen?"

"I just received final confirmation this morning, shortly after you left for school," said Roarke, sitting back in his chair with a satisfied smile. "All the plans are made and everything is ready to be put into motion. We need only wait for Saturday."

Leslie looked over at the grandfather clock, as if by doing so she could speed up time. "It's going to be the longest week on earth," she said with a sigh.

Roarke laughed. "The weekend will be here soon enough," he said. "You can pass some of the time right now by getting started on whatever homework you have. And then, after supper, I'm going to send you out to find a little hand bell."

"A what?" Leslie said blankly. "Why do you need one of those?"

"You'll see," said Roarke. "Just get the bell first, and I'll explain later. Now…go ahead and do your homework, and let me put away these paints before Tattoo walks in here and sees them." He began replacing paint tubes in their boxes, while Leslie headed for her room to get her homework done, still puzzling over the need for a bell.

§ § § -- February 21, 1981

It was clear that Tattoo didn't suspect a single thing, although he did ask Leslie why she was so antsy when he met her and Roarke on the porch to go to the plane dock. Roarke tried to improvise when Leslie went utterly still, staring at Tattoo with wide eyes. "Too much pent-up energy, my friend, no doubt," he said, giving Leslie a sharp look when Tattoo wasn't watching him. "She has been sitting in school all week, and is simply happy for the arrival of the weekend."

"Right," said Leslie, trying to take her guardian's cue. "Uh…can we go now?" Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other, but to her relief they agreed, just as the car arrived.

Their first guest turned out to be an unprepossessing man who appeared to be in his late thirties or perhaps early forties. "Ah," Roarke said, "Mr. Jerome Pepper, a shoes salesman at Latham's Department Store in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. For seven years, he's been hopelessly in love with a young lady who works in the kitchenware department. But he has never summoned the courage to tell her of his feelings, or even ask her for a date."

"So his fantasy is for her to fall in love with him," guessed Tattoo.

"Oh, no, no, no," Roarke said. "All he asks is that, just for once, the girl of his dreams should notice him."

"He sounds like a very timid man," Tattoo observed.

"Indeed. He is a naturally shy, even self-effacing person. And the girl he loves happens to be…Miss Thalia Latham." He caught the looks of sudden understanding on Tattoo and Leslie, and nodded, saying, "That's right, his boss's daughter."

"I get it," said Tattoo. "He feels like he's trying to reach for the moon."

"And perhaps he's right, Tattoo." Roarke made an expression that looked almost like a wink. "We shall see." He turned his attention to the plane dock, and Leslie straightened up with excitement, trying to see who emerged and keep track of Tattoo's reactions at the same time. As they watched, six pretty young women stepped out of the plane cabin one by one, laughing and chattering, nearly running the native girls out of leis and drinks.

"Boss," Tattoo burst out in wonder, "I know you can do almost everything, but if every one of those girls has a fantasy—"

"The three of us would be very busy, wouldn't we?" Roarke filled in, aiming a quick wink at Leslie, whose excitement showed all too clearly on her face.

"I wouldn't mind," said Tattoo cheerfully.

Leslie grinned, and Roarke remarked in amusement, "Oh, I know, I know. But fortunately for us, none of those young ladies has asked for a fantasy."

"So what are they doing here?" Tattoo inquired with great interest.

"I have a very dear friend who is something of an artist," Roarke said, quite casually. Leslie wished she were as good at hiding her feelings. "He has always admired the work of the great French painter Toulouse-Lautrec."

Tattoo brightened. "Oh, boss, Lautrec is my favorite painter too!"

"Really!" said Roarke, looking convincingly surprised. "Then you will understand why I invited the Traditional Dance Company of Paris to rehearse on Fantasy Island."

Tattoo looked up with wide eyes. "You mean your friend wants to draw the dancers, just like Toulouse-Lautrec did at the Moulin Rouge?"

"Precisely," Roarke confirmed.

Tattoo peered hopefully up at him. "Boss…do you think your friend would mind if I watch him, uh, get his fantasy come true?"

"Ah, Tattoo, unfortunately, that is quite impossible," Roarke said with mock regret.

Tattoo shrugged. "I just thought I'd ask."

"It is impossible because you cannot watch yourself sketch," Roarke said, finally cracking his innocent façade with a half-stifled smile. Tattoo gave him an odd look, and Roarke grinned outright. "Yes, it's your fantasy, Tattoo—my gift to you."

Tattoo stared up at him in astonishment and then looked at Leslie, who bubbled, "We've been working on this for weeks! It's for your birthday!"

Tattoo's round face split into the biggest grin they'd ever seen on him, and Roarke chuckled and patted his assistant's shoulder. "Happy birthday, _mon cher ami."_

"Boss, my very own fantasy?" Tattoo exclaimed, delighted.

"That's right," said Roarke cheerfully. At that point his drink arrived, and he started to lift the glass, then hesitated. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "I would think that just this once, you should have a drink. A small one. Right, Leslie?" She grinned and nodded, and Tattoo began to reach for the tray before Roarke caught him. "Over there," he said, gesturing to where the dancers stood.

Beaming, Tattoo headed that way, and Roarke and Leslie gazed after him, Leslie sidling closer to her guardian. "Perhaps he can make someone else's fantasy come true," he said softly to her.

"I bet he does," she said. "He's got such a big heart, I'd be amazed if it _didn't_ happen."

Roarke smiled and slipped an arm around her, then raised his glass in the weekly greeting toast, saluting Jerome Pepper, then Tattoo, the latter with a wink. Leslie grinned and waved at the happy Frenchman.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- February 21, 1981

The dance company was warming up when Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo arrived, the latter armed with a sketchbook and charcoal pencils. "I heard the company needed a facility to work out new routines for their forthcoming world tour," Roarke explained as they made their entrance between tall plaster posts setting off the stage area, "so I contacted the general manager, Mr. Alfred Gérard, and invited them to come here."

Before his companions could react, a voice called out, "Mr. Roarke—hi!" A man with curly black hair and a compact, muscular build crossed the stage toward them and shook Roarke's hand. "I'm Mark Ellison."

"Ah, the director. This is Leslie, my ward." Leslie smiled in polite silence.

"Hi, Leslie. And this must be Tattoo, the artist. Mr. Gérard told me you're to be given the run of the house," Ellison said, shaking Tattoo's hand.

Tattoo smiled. "If you don't mind."

"Oh, not at all," Ellison said cheerfully. "Make yourselves at home."

Roarke thanked him, and Ellison turned away then and called out, "Okay, girls! Let's get ready for dress rehearsal!" He clapped his hands for emphasis, while Roarke turned to Tattoo.

"As you can see," he said, "Mr. Ellison has a great deal of work to do, so make sure you do not add to his problems."

Tattoo smiled confidently. "He won't even notice me. I don't take up much room!" He said this last to Leslie and joined in her soft laughter.

Roarke smiled, then straightened up. "We'd better hurry, Leslie."

Before they could go, however, Tattoo caught his arm. "Boss, thank you very much," he said softly, his eyes shining.

Roarke took his hand and gave it a hearty pat, then smiled, let him loose and gestured Leslie along. She lingered long enough to ask hopefully, "Show us your sketches later?"

"Of course, silly. Go on," Tattoo said indulgently. She grinned and followed Roarke out of the stage area, casting one last look back at Tattoo as the young Frenchman took a seat at a table with a good view of the stage and began to spread out his materials. She would have liked to watch the rehearsals herself, but this was Tattoo's fantasy, and she wasn't going to spoil his fun.

Within half an hour she, Roarke and Jerome Pepper were strolling slowly up a row of stalls at the island's stables, discussing Pepper's fantasy. "I'm sure that racehorses are fascinating animals, Mr. Roarke," Pepper remarked, looking a little uneasy, "but I don't see what they have to do with my fantasy."

"Oh, a great deal, Mr. Pepper," Roarke assured him. "Miss Latham has brought one of her father's horses here to train him for the racetrack."

"She has?" Pepper asked, obviously surprised. Roarke nodded, and Pepper shrugged. "Well, it's only natural that a person of her background should be, well, involved in the sport of kings, you know? She has a royal bearing—a regal beauty, poise, dignity, elegance! She's working in kitchenware only because her father wants her to learn the business from the ground up, you know?"

"Obviously, Mr. Pepper, yes," Roarke humored him, his attention suddenly distracted. "Oh, there she is now." Pepper glanced over his shoulder; his eyes widened and, to Roarke's surprise and Leslie's amusement, he ducked behind his host, as if to hide. Wondering what Thalia Latham must think of Pepper, Leslie watched the pretty brunette woman, at least ten years younger than her hapless admirer, approaching them, her attention on something in one hand. Roarke traded an amused glance with his ward before deliberately calling out, "Miss Latham?"

Thalia Latham looked up and brightened. "Mr. Roarke, how nice to see you…and hi, Leslie." Leslie smiled a greeting, and Roarke shook Thalia's hand; then the heiress noticed the cowering man behind him, peered more closely at him, and lit up with recognition. "Why, Jerome Pepper! From ladies' shoes! What a surprise!"

Given no choice, Pepper finally emerged from Roarke's shadow and met her extended hand with his own. "I'm very surprised, likewise…to see you here as well," Pepper said painfully. "Well, I'm happy and delighted…if you don't find that offensive…" The last word made Roarke turn his head enough to give Pepper a mildly strange look; Leslie could only think to herself that for once, here was someone who bumbled along in social situations worse than she did!

The sudden scream of a horse behind them distracted Thalia, and a faintly alarmed look crossed her face. "Excuse me, please," she said crisply and struck off for one of the stalls.

They watched her go for a moment, Pepper with a palpable longing about him; then Roarke turned to him and pointed out, "Now, she noticed you, Mr. Pepper, and recognized you at first glance!"

"Well," Pepper allowed, "she acknowledged my presence, but you do that much to a fly you find in your soup. 'Hello, fly.' 'Hello, Jerome.' " Leslie giggled at Pepper's playacting.

"Oh, come now, I'm sure no slight was meant," Roarke said reassuringly. "No, it's just that she's having serious problems with her horse, Pomona Prince."

Pepper could do no more than repeat the name before the stable door they were staring at splintered and crashed outward under the ferocious kicking of an enraged horse. Leslie took her turn hiding behind Roarke; she wasn't at all familiar with horses.

"Very serious problems," Roarke went on gravely, just as a stable hand came flying out the ruined door, landing flat on his back. They winced at the impact, looking on while the stable hand scrambled to his feet and out of the way of a pure white horse that charged out of the stall, squealing and bucking every attempt to get him back under control.

From behind them came a derisive feminine laugh; it turned out to belong to an older redheaded woman decked out in a riding outfit. "Oh, Mr. Roarke," she scoffed, "that poor girl might just as well pack up and go home right now. Why, she knows as much about horseflesh as her father knows about running a department store!" Chuckling in self-satisfaction, she patted Roarke's shoulder, then turned away to tend to a horse in a nearby stall.

Roarke's expression of forced politeness melted away and he lowered his voice to apprise Pepper and Leslie of the situation. "Mrs. Amelia Selby, owner of the Kentucky Derby winner Satin Duke—and Selby's department store of Philadelphia."

"Selby's!" Pepper muttered in aghast recognition. "It's Latham's only rival. We're more competitive than Macy's and Gimbel's."

Roarke nodded. "Mrs. Selby has challenged Mr. Latham's horse to match-race, and one hundred thousand dollars is at stake."

Amelia Selby glanced sidelong at them. "It's like stealing money from a blind man," she remarked smugly, and with that parting shot, walked away. Behind them Pomona Prince squealed again; Thalia Latham was still struggling to calm the horse, to no avail.

Pepper shook his head and burst out, "This is crazy! I mean, Miss Latham could be hurt very badly!" He started in her direction, but Roarke restrained him.

"I'm afraid she has only herself to blame," he said. "You see, her father didn't want to accept the bet, and he was going to sell the animal; but his daughter begged for a chance to prove that she could get him to race—and win. Unfortunately, Pomona Prince has put four stable hands in the hospital…so far."

Pepper looked around in frustration. "I feel so useless. I wish I could do something somehow."

Roarke beamed. "Oh, but I assure you, you can…and you will. Mr. Pepper, you are going to tame Pomona Prince; you are going to make him as gentle and obedient as a lamb. That certainly should make Miss Latham notice you, don't you think?" His words reminded Leslie then of a phone call she'd overheard him making earlier in the week, and she grinned with anticipation.

Pepper stared at him in disbelief. "But you gotta be joking! I'm a shoe salesman, not a bronco buster!"

"Of that I am well aware," said Roarke patiently. "Therefore, I have arranged for you to have the assistance of the ultimate expert."

"Professor Oats," Leslie put in, grinning.

Pepper peered blankly at her. "Professor Oats?"

Roarke nodded, turning to follow Leslie, who had already started away toward a horse trailer from which a large brown steed with a broad white stripe down his nose was just emerging, led by a young blonde. The horse was already bobbing his head as if in greeting to Leslie, who reached up and stroked his nose. Roarke stopped just behind her. "Mr. Jerome Pepper, may I present Professor Oats."

Pepper stared, then finally found his voice. "But…he's a horse!" Professor Oats raised his head and neighed loudly at them, making Leslie step back despite herself.

Roarke smiled again. "The Professor is a remarkable animal, Mr. Pepper—sensitive, highly intelligent, and extremely adept at controlling other animals. He can literally alter their personalities."

Pepper eyed him dubiously. "Oh, now, hold it, Mr. Roarke. Are you trying to tell me the Professor is some kind of…horse psychiatrist?"

"Uh, no, no…not exactly. But I promise you, Pomona Prince will be putty in his—hooves." Leslie rolled her eyes playfully at her guardian, and he responded with an equally playful fake smile at her. Just then they all heard a twinkling melody in the air and focused on a large white ice-cream truck just pulling onto the stable grounds. The driver got out with an enormous cone in one hand and hopped the fence, coming to them and holding it out in front of him like a trophy.

"The Professor's order, Mr. Roarke," he said cheerfully.

"Thank you." Roarke took the cone and handed it to Leslie. "Suppose you do the honors."

"Oh…okay." Leslie accepted the huge treat, balanced it in her hand, and presented it to the horse.

"He is partial to tutti-frutti," Roarke told Pepper, watching the Professor, who was eyeing the cone with what looked like suspicion. "Right, Professor?" The horse responded with a whinny and a toss of his head, making Roarke frown at him. "What do you mean, not enough topping? He's getting a little spoiled, Mr. Pepper," he said apologetically, while Leslie snickered. "Would you like me to put him through some of his paces?"

Pepper, intrigued despite himself, shrugged amiably. "Why not?"

Roarke nodded. "Stand over there, please, with Leslie." Pepper and Leslie both backed off; Roarke turned to the horse. "Now, Professor, would you mind telling Mr. Pepper—how old are you?" The horse stamped his hoof as Roarke counted: "One, two, three, four, five!" He turned to his two spectators. "See? Now, will you do a camel stretch for Mr. Pepper?" The Professor lowered his head almost to the ground and stretched out his front legs, his tail flipping vertically as he did so. "Kneel and say your prayers, Professor." At which the horse folded his lower front legs beneath him, and Leslie laughed aloud, making Pepper smile too. "Well," Roarke concluded, "I think you deserve a little nap now, Professor." With that, Professor Oats rolled over onto one side.

Pepper stared in astonishment as the horse scrambled back to his feet. "That's fantastic…it's unreal! There's no doubt that this animal is a very brilliant horse, but do you really think he can control Pomona Prince with a bunch of tricks?"

"Just leave everything to the Professor," Roarke assured him. "Right, Professor?" The horse nodded, and Roarke gestured at Leslie to give him his treat. In spite of his apparent complaint about the lack of topping, Professor Oats seemed more than happy to nip the cone from Leslie's hand in about four rather large bites. She giggled as he nuzzled her palm in thanks, and Roarke smiled at her and then nodded at a still-doubtful Jerome Pepper.

‡ ‡ ‡

Late in the afternoon Roarke brought Leslie around to the venue where the dancers were rehearsing, to see how Tattoo was doing; it was clear within moments of their arrival that Tattoo had never been more in his element, sketching away to his heart's content while the dancers rehearsed to the rollicking "Can-Can". They were about halfway through already; Leslie found herself watching the dancers as much as she did Tattoo, but she paid him enough attention to see that he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

Finally the rehearsal came to an end and Ellison got up from another table. "Okay, girls, that's it for today," he said. The dancers began to move off the stage, and he added, "Oh, and girls…very nice, by the way." They loosed whooping cheers in response and jogged off the stage; Tattoo smiled and began to glance through his sketches. Once the stage had cleared and things had quieted, he closed the sketchbook and arose to depart; about halfway to the exit, the same movement that both Roarke and Leslie saw arrested him and he stopped to see what it was. After another couple of seconds, a pretty, very young-looking blonde with a sweet, girlish face and a wistful look about her appeared at the top of the steps that comprised part of the stage set. Unaware she was being watched, she gazed dreamily around the stage, then swung down a couple of steps as if moving to music only she could hear.

Roarke might have turned away at that point, but at the same time he and Leslie both spied a reel-to-reel tape recorder in a corner of the seating area. They could also see Tattoo's interest in the young woman. Roarke smiled just slightly, then narrowed his eyes in concentration, and a second later the recorder clicked into motion. A melancholy-sounding instrumental began to play.

The girl on the steps glanced around in surprise, called out in French, and when she got no response, tried again in English: "Who's there?" Still no reply, although Tattoo stayed where he stood, watching her thoughtfully. He was hidden enough from view that she must have thought she was alone, for she finally succumbed to the impulse and slipped down onto the stage, dancing gracefully to the somewhat pensive music.

Tattoo, plainly impressed, reached through the spiral-carved support posts of the railing that ran alongside the tall plaster columns and set his sketchbook down onto the nearest table, then slipped through himself, all the while watching the lone dancer with a smile. He quickly flipped open his sketchbook and began swiftly drawing; Roarke and Leslie lingered, impressed by the performance.

When the music came to an end, the recorder switched off; Leslie cast Roarke a look, but apparently he'd had nothing to do with that, for he was watching Tattoo and the dancer. He seemed to feel her gaze on him, for he turned and gave her a curious look that made her redden and look away.

Meantime, Tattoo began applauding enthusiastically. "Bravo! Bravo!" he exclaimed over and over. For the first time the young woman saw him sitting there with the open sketchbook in front of him, his face wreathed in smiles. "Bravo! Oh, don't stop, please. You're wonderful!"

"Who are you?" she asked curiously.

"My name is Tattoo," he told her. "What's your name?"

"Solange," she said. "Solange Latignon. You startled me—I thought I was alone."

"You dance beautifully," Tattoo complimented her. "Are you with the troupe?"

"No," Solange admitted with a slightly sheepish smile, strolling over and sitting at his table. "I'm not really a dancer—not yet, but someday. I look after the costumes."

Tattoo smiled hopefully and ventured, "After so much dancing, you must be hungry."

"Starved," Solange confessed, grinning.

"Well, it's time for dinner," Tattoo said. "Will you do me the honor, please?"

As Solange accepted, Leslie looked up at Roarke and whispered, "I guess it's gonna be just us at the supper table tonight, Mr. Roarke."

He smiled and nodded agreement, watching Tattoo kiss the back of Solange's hand. "I suspect you're right. Let's leave them in peace." She allowed him to guide her back along the walkway and out of sight of Tattoo and Solange.

About an hour after Roarke and Leslie had eaten their own meal, Tattoo came in, looking annoyed. Roarke focused on him as he crossed the room and sank absentmindedly into a club chair. "Is something wrong, my friend? Didn't you enjoy your dinner with the young lady?"

Tattoo blinked and looked around, as if surprised he had ended up where he had; then he smiled a little and said, "Oh, of course, boss, I enjoyed it very much. Solange is a very sweet and pretty woman, and she's very good company. And she's so friendly and easy to talk to. She knows about art too—she commented on my sketches."

"Then how come you look like you want to throttle somebody?" Leslie asked.

"The director, Ellison," Tattoo said, his frown returning. "I don't know what made him do it…I thought he didn't mind my being around. But he showed up before Solange and I were finished eating, right after I asked her if she would sit for a formal portrait in oil, and warned me off her."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other. "How'd he do that?" Leslie wanted to know.

Tattoo shrugged helplessly. "I think Solange should be dancing with the troupe, not stuck sewing costumes. She dances so beautifully, I can't understand why she's only the seamstress. I saw her earlier after the others left the stage, dancing all by herself, and she's just wonderful. But Ellison seems to think she's a little girl or something. He said he was waiting for her to grow up, and I wondered if that was why he wouldn't let her dance. That's when he got all closed up and told me to stay away from her."

Roarke raised his eyebrows; Leslie made a face. "Well, that's mean," she said. "I mean, has that guy got something against you and Solange being friends now?"

Tattoo peered at her, then at Roarke with a look that suggested he was searching for answers. "Maybe. I don't know…it's just that something tells me he's afraid of any outside influences on her."

Leslie stared at him, alarmed. "But that's controlling," she protested. "Michael didn't want my sisters and me making any friends. That's what it sounds like Ellison's doing to Solange. Mr. Roarke, isn't there anything we can do?"

"It's not our place to interfere," Roarke said gently, noticing Tattoo's unhappiness and Leslie's disappointment. "The only person who can ultimately decide what is to happen to her is Miss Latignon herself. But don't worry, Tattoo, the weekend isn't over yet. I have a sense that the young lady has a mind of her own…very much like another young lady we both know." He turned a teasing look on Leslie, and Tattoo laughed, which relieved her enough that she didn't mind being the butt of Roarke's gentle jest.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- February 22, 1981

The high-stakes horse race between Emmett Latham and Amelia Selby was scheduled to begin at two o'clock Sunday afternoon. Roarke drove Leslie down to the stables while Tattoo went back to the rehearsal area to do some more sketches of the dancers; Leslie was sure he was hoping to see Solange Latignon again while he was there, though after his revelations about Mark Ellison's untimely interruption of their dinner, she had a feeling the man might actively try to keep Solange and Tattoo apart. Aware there was nothing she personally could do, she had agreed to accompany Roarke to the stables, with some reluctance owing to her expressed wish to tell Ellison off.

They found Jerome Pepper loitering beside a stall, looking dejected. "Hello, Mr. Pepper," Roarke greeted him. "Why so forlorn? Don't tell me Miss Latham failed to notice you again!"

Pepper snorted. "Oh no, no, she noticed me all right, and for a moment I thought she was even glad to see me. But then she backed off again, like always. I can't make her out, Mr. Roarke. And I'm beginning to think I was a fool to hope that a poised, sophisticated department-store heiress like Thalia Latham could ever be interested in the likes of me."

Before Roarke could comment, a female voice cried out, "Mr. Pepper!" It was none other than Thalia Latham herself, rushing to meet them; she looked frantic. "The Professor—he's gone! He's supposed to be waiting at the finish line to make sure Pomona Prince finishes the race!" They all looked around to where the race was to begin and end; sure enough, Professor Oats was nowhere in sight.

Roarke extracted his gold pocket watch. "You have precisely thirty-two minutes in which to find him; then I must start the race as agreed," he told them with just a touch of regret. "I'm sorry. Will you excuse us?" He glanced at Leslie, who cast a glance over her shoulder at Pepper and Thalia before following as bidden. Unable to keep from feeling sorry for their guests, she continued to watch them over her shoulder; after some conferring, they ran off as one toward the stables.

Finally she voiced her curiosity in what was meant to be a rhetorical question. "Wonder what happened?"

"A pertinent question. What do _you_ think happened?" Roarke countered unexpectedly.

Distinctly surprised by his question, Leslie stared blankly back at him for a long moment, then blinked and got her brain back in gear. "Well, the Professor disappeared right before the race," she began slowly, "and there's only so much time for him to be found. Everybody involved in this thing probably knows about his influence on Pomona Prince by now, don't they?"

"That's a reasonable conclusion," Roarke agreed encouragingly.

"That would obviously include the opposition," Leslie went on, thinking out loud. "Amelia Selby and anybody who's part of her entourage. So it makes sense that one of them had something to do with the Professor's disappearance."

Roarke nodded. "Particularly as the stakes have now been doubled to two hundred thousand dollars. Very good, Leslie," he approved.

"Isn't there anything we can do about it?" she asked, just as they passed a tree beneath which Amelia Selby and one of her stable hands happened to be standing. She missed their presence, but Roarke noted that he and Leslie were within their earshot, and spoke as much for their benefit as for his ward's, well aware that they were eavesdropping none too discreetly.

"We might suspect we know who did it," he said, "and we could even point a finger with reasonable certainty that we are correct; but there is no proof, so under that circumstance, we can do nothing."

"Huh," Leslie said and then remembered the previous day, grinning up at him. "I tell you what though, I hope he's already had his daily ice-cream cone, or else that's gonna be one angry horse."

Roarke chuckled. "Indeed," he agreed, ushering her along out of the earshot of the nearby listeners. He smiled to himself; that should give them something to worry about. "Ah, there's Mr. Latham. I need to speak with him for a few moments."

Having done so, they retreated to the rehearsal stage, which seemed deserted at the moment. "What're we doing here?" Leslie asked.

"Looking for someone…ah, there she is now. Mademoiselle?" Solange, just crossing the stage with a costume on a hanger in one hand, paused to watch Roarke and Leslie approach her. "My name is Roarke; I am a friend of Tattoo's. This is Leslie Hamilton, my ward, and she regards him as a sort of uncle to her."

"How do you do, sir and miss?" Solange responded with a smile.

"Very well, thank you." Roarke paused a moment and studied her. "Uh…today is Tattoo's birthday. I'm planning a surprise for him, and I was hoping to arrange a little party, with your help." Solange brightened at that.

"It probably won't be all that little," Leslie confessed with a shy grin. "A lot of Mr. Roarke's employees know Tattoo and they want to be there for the party. We've already got the cake on order and some of the native girls are decorating the patio at the main house. But we thought you'd like to be in on the celebration." 

"Yes," Roarke agreed. "He enjoys your company very much."

Surprise flitted across Solange's features. "Did he tell you that?"

"Oh yes, yes," Roarke assured her.

"I see," she said and studied him thoughtfully. "The three of you must be very close."

Roarke smiled and nodded. "He's a very dear friend…and a fine person. We'd like his birthday to be a very, very special occasion."

Solange nodded agreement, eyes alight. "I'll help in any way I can."

Roarke started to thank her; then he spotted movement over her shoulder, and Leslie looked past Solange to see Tattoo just starting down the entryway between the pillars. "Oh, here he comes now. We'll talk later, huh? And thank you." Solange smiled at them as they hastily took themselves out of sight.

"Boy, I guess we're lucky we caught her," Leslie remarked.

"More than you know. We'd better get back to the stables, there are only fifteen minutes till the start of the race." Roarke led her back to the Ring Road, where a car awaited them, and drove to the stables, which were quiet at the moment except for the occasional whinny in the distance. The race course was beginning to attract spectators, and Satin Duke and his jockey were already under the banner that signaled the start and finish line, waiting.

"Mr. Roarke!" someone yelled, and they paused as Jerome Pepper and Thalia Latham, both looking a little desperate, ran up to them. "Please, help us! How can we find the Professor before Thalia has to forfeit the race?"

"Oh, I am so sorry," Roarke said. "I wish I could oblige. Well, let me think, let me think. He can't be far away; there must be some way to find him."

As he was speaking the last few words, the tinkling music heralding the ice-cream truck wafted to their ears. Leslie broke in, "The ice-cream man's here!"

Roarke looked at her in somewhat exaggerated surprise and then glanced around; sure enough, the big white panel truck was approaching over the nearby pasture. "Oh, what a pity," he remarked with sham sorrow. "The Professor's going to miss his daily treat." He eyed Pepper and Thalia sidelong. "Tutti-frutti."

Pepper lit up as though a cartoon lightbulb had burst into life over his head. "Tutti-frutti!" he blurted. Grabbing Thalia's arm, he urged her along with a frantic "Come on!" and made for the panel truck. Thalia broke into a run to keep up with him; Roarke and Leslie watched while they pulled open the driver's side door and Thalia crawled in first, Pepper leaping in after her and slamming the door scant seconds before throwing the vehicle into gear. The driver had been rummaging around in the back and was nearly yanked off his feet by the sudden forward motion of his truck. Leslie gasped and began giggling. 

"Hey! Come back! What're you doing? I've been hijacked!" the driver hollered, vainly pursuing his commandeered truck. Roarke started to laugh softly, then slid an arm around his ward's shoulders and guided her along towards the race course. There they joined up with Emmett Latham and Amelia Selby, both of whom looked quite confident in the race's outcome. Leslie, studying the expression on Mrs. Selby's face, was more convinced than ever that she was behind Professor Oats' disappearance.

After a few minutes Amelia Selby showed Roarke her watch and announced, "It's almost post time."

Roarke spared her one faintly irritated glance and said coolly, "Yes, Mrs. Selby, I'm quite aware of that." He broadened his gaze to include Latham. "Let us be certain you both understand the rules. The first leg of this race will be cross-country, over two miles. The horses will turn at the mile mark and head for the finish line." So saying, he accepted their nods and started in that direction with Leslie a few steps behind.

As a result, she was still close enough to hear when Amelia Selby remarked smugly, "Well, one of them will, anyway." Latham gave her an odd look, and Leslie now was certain it was Mrs. Selby's fault that Professor Oats had vanished. She shook her head disgustedly and ran to catch up with Roarke, reaching him just as he stopped beside one of the posts that held up the banner demarcating the starting point. A long red ribbon was strung from one post to the other at about chest level; Roarke now grasped the near end of the ribbon and gave a hefty yank, sending the far end sailing toward him. The horses instantly leaped into action and galloped away toward a small rise in the green pasture.

Once the horses topped it and tore out of sight down the other side, Roarke led Leslie back to where Latham and Mrs. Selby were waiting beside each other, standing behind a white wooden railing setting off the course from the spectators. Both department-store owners were now intently focusing with binoculars on the rise where the horses had disappeared. It took some five minutes before they saw anything; Latham let out a whoop when he saw which horse had emerged first. "Come on, Prince, baby!" he yelled and grinned smugly at Mrs. Selby, who cast him a confident smile in return. Roarke and Leslie watched them in silence; she had told him on the way to the finish line what she had overheard Mrs. Selby say, though he hadn't commented on it.

"The race isn't over yet, Emmett," Mrs. Selby reminded her rival.

"Hah," Latham snorted and lifted his binoculars again. Leslie rotated in a half circle where she stood at Roarke's right, anxiously scanning the rolling countryside; but there was no sign of either the pilfered ice-cream truck or Professor Oats. All of a sudden Latham yelped, "He's stopped!" which brought her attention back to the race. Sure enough, Pomona Prince perched atop the rise like a statue.

"He's looking for his friend, Mr. Latham, the Professor," Roarke said calmly. Latham shot him a bewildered look and turned back to stare at Pomona Prince standing stock-still, as if waiting for some signal.

Then they heard the sound of an engine and turned back to finally see the ice-cream truck tooling alongside a horse and rider. "Oh no," said Mrs. Selby. Leslie beamed excitedly, and Roarke smiled with a quiet satisfaction.

Professor Oats galloped up to the finish line and Jerome Pepper jumped off his back, while the truck stopped nearby and Thalia Latham tumbled out of the driver's seat to run over and join Pepper and the horse. "Here, Prince, come on, boy!" she called encouragement to the white horse, which had started to prance in place. "Here's the Professor, he's waiting for you!" She and Pepper kept yelling encouragement, and Professor Oats added his spirited whinnying to the rising noise. Behind Pomona Prince, Satin Duke suddenly appeared over the top of the rise and galloped right past the stalled steed, just before Pomona Prince finally took to his heels once more. Everyone began shouting, except for Roarke who was as calm as ever, and Mrs. Selby, who looked very worried now. It took no more than fifteen seconds for Pomona Prince to edge past Satin Duke and lead the way across the finish line.

Cheers erupted all over the place; Leslie threw her arms in the air and gave a couple of exuberant leaps, yelling happily. Roarke glanced at her and grinned; Latham beamed, and Amelia Selby hid her face in her hands. Pomona Prince, still with his jockey aboard, trotted to Professor Oats and greeted his friend with a nose rub.

"Aw, Amelia, it's not that bad," Latham said, staring at Mrs. Selby, who was now crying and trying to mop her face with a big green satin hanky. "It's only two hundred thousand!" Leslie stared at them and Roarke watched curiously.

"Oh, it's not the money, Emmett," Mrs. Selby wailed tearfully.

Roarke stepped around her so he could speak directly to Latham. "You must understand, Mr. Latham, Mrs. Selby has been a widow for many years, running a huge department store on her own."

Latham stared at him. "I know that! She's been after my store most of that time."

"Not the store, Mr. Latham," Roarke said with a patient smile. "That is not what she has set her heart on."

Latham gave Mrs. Selby a sidelong look; then he seemed to get Roarke's point and mouthed an _oh._ His gaze slid back to Roarke and he pointed quizzically at Mrs. Selby; Roarke nodded confirmation. Finally Latham turned to Mrs. Selby and asked, "Is that true, Amelia?"

She nodded, blotting at her tears. "Oh Emmett, you're the only man I ever wanted for a partner, and I wanted you to respect me—as a winner."

"I do respect you!" Latham protested. "I thought you saw me only as a business rival." She shook her head with a silent _oh, no,_ and he grinned. "You were right: there _isn't_ room for both our department stores in Philadelphia. So how does 'Latham & Selby' sound?"

Mrs. Selby brightened, then offered, "How about…'Selby & Latham'?" They both burst into laughter and hugged each other, and Roarke moved a few steps aside and gazed out toward the finish line, where Jerome Pepper and Thalia Latham stood near the horses, in each other's arms. Leslie joined him a moment later.

"You did it again, Mr. Roarke," she said.

"I think you give me undue credit, but thank you anyway," Roarke said with a chuckle. "Now it's time to find Tattoo and set the stage for his party."

After about half an hour they finally tracked him down, sitting on a white wrought-iron bench staring into a small pool fed by a tiny trickling waterfall. "Tattoo, we've been looking all over for you," Roarke said. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, just working things out." Tattoo hesitated, then asked, "Boss, is it wrong to wish someone had never come to Fantasy Island?"

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other, and Leslie bit her lip before turning her anxious gaze to Tattoo. "Are you referring to Miss Solange Latignon?" Roarke asked. "Does she mean that much to you, Tattoo?"

"Mm-hmm," Tattoo murmured, his gaze straying out over the pool again. After a long moment he said plaintively, "Is it wrong, her and me?"

Roarke sat down on the twin to Tattoo's bench, while Leslie stood behind him, watching Tattoo with a worried look. "Only you can answer that, Tattoo," Roarke said sympathetically. "As the poet Burns says, we can never see ourselves as others see us, you see?"

Tattoo shot him and Leslie an ironic look. "I don't think she's got me confused with Robert Redford."

Roarke chuckled softly and regarded him with a wistful look. "For once in my life I don't know what to say to you, dear friend," he said. "Today is your birthday, and I wanted to give you something that would make you happy. Instead, this fantasy, I'm afraid, is…" He let the words trail off, looked away and then at the lush grass beneath their feet. Leslie, silent, laid a hand on his shoulder, and he reached up and covered it with his own.

"Oh, it's not your fault," Tattoo said, sympathy on his own face now.

"Well, I can't help feeling bad," Roarke said ruefully, looking up, "and now…now I have to make matters even worse. The island council has called a special meeting this evening." He regarded Tattoo helplessly. "I must attend."

"You want me to cover for you?" Tattoo offered.

Roarke demurred. "Well, I hate to ask you to work on your birthday."

"Oh, that's all right, boss. It'll keep me occupied."

"I'll keep you company," Leslie put in and smiled a little.

"Sure, sounds good to me," Tattoo agreed, smiling back at her.

"Thank you, Tattoo," Roarke said, and Tattoo turned the smile on him, nodding once in quiet acknowledgement. "All right, let's say about eight o'clock, hm?"

"Okay, boss," Tattoo said softly. Roarke reached out and gripped his longtime friend's shoulder, squeezing a little, then patting it and finally rising. "Come along, Leslie, I think Tattoo would prefer to be alone."

She got to her feet and trailed Roarke away; when they were out of both sight and hearing of Tattoo, he turned to her. "Were you ever able to get that—"

"Yes, I did, Mr. Roarke," she broke in, nodding. "Finally found one Friday afternoon after school, and it's all boxed and everything. I even wrote him a card."

"Good girl," Roarke said warmly. "I think we have approximately two hours to finish making the preparations, so…"

"I…have to talk to Tattoo about something," Leslie said, clearing her throat. "I'll be back as soon as I'm done, I promise." In fact, she was worried about her honorary uncle, and wanted to gauge his mood; she was somewhat afraid he might be too depressed to come to his own birthday party.

Roarke glanced back toward the lagoon where Tattoo still sat, then sighed gently. "Very well, but try not to take too long. We're going to need your help."

"I'll be quick, Mr. Roarke," she promised, and hurried off toward Tattoo before her guardian could say anything more. Tattoo looked up in surprise at hearing Leslie's footsteps approaching, and watched her settle down on the bench Roarke had vacated.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

She bit her lip, now unsure what to say. "Not with me," she finally said lamely.

Tattoo grinned a little. "You want me to get it off my chest, don't you, huh?"

"Well, Mom used to say that you should talk about your troubles to someone else. And I've heard Mr. Roarke say that it seems less terrible when you do. It makes you feel better."

Tattoo regarded her with amusement, then shrugged and let the smile fall away, his gaze drifting back to the tinkling waterfall. "That's what they say, all right."

She sat there watching him avoid her gaze, wondering why he was so dejected now after he'd been so happy dining with Solange the night before. "Did that Mark Ellison scare you off Solange for good?" she asked without thinking, once her thoughts had jumped to him.

Tattoo turned to her in startlement and frowned, then stared at the ground, the scowl lingering. "Well, he had something to do with it. Maybe she likes him more than I thought. I don't know." He sighed and finally told her what had happened. "I was going to meet her to paint her portrait, but when I was almost there, I saw her with Ellison. They were talking for a few minutes, and then he kissed her. I got upset and ripped my last sketch of her out of the book."

"Oh," said Leslie, blinking. They sat quietly for a moment, the waterfall purling and Leslie's mind racing; then she sat up. "Maybe she didn't want him kissing her, Tattoo. Maybe she was just trying to get away from him and he wouldn't let her go." She saw him open his mouth to protest and broke in, "You didn't even stay around to ask, did you? I mean, if you had, you wouldn't be here wondering all this stuff now. What'd it look like when he kissed her?"

Tattoo stared at her, then rolled his eyes and indulged her, thinking back. She watched his features arrange themselves into a thoughtful frown. "She put her hands on his shoulders. I think she sort of tried to pull away, but he held onto her. Not that she tried very hard."

"I thought you were fair," Leslie said accusingly when his voice turned surly on the last half-dozen words. "You're pronouncing Solange guilty when you haven't even heard her side of the story. Maybe you ought to think about that."

Tattoo looked hard at her, then smiled, ever so slightly. "Okay, I'll think about it," he agreed. "Now will you get out of here so I can have a chance to do that thinking?"

Leslie laughed. "Okay, okay, I'm going. See you at the main house this evening." She got up and struck off across the grass for the path that would eventually take her back home, looking forward to the party.


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § -- February 22, 1981

It was dark and about five minutes till eight; Leslie hovered in front of the closed shutters to the terrace, with a few slats open just enough for her to peek out. So far there was no sign of Tattoo; behind her the study was normally lit but quiet, though the air sang with anticipation. Standing beside her was her best friend, Michiko Tokita, who along with her father the sheriff had come to the party as she had hoped to do some weeks earlier. "Do you see him yet?" she whispered in Leslie's ear.

Leslie shook her head. "He better hurry, though, before—" Just then she caught a movement and gasped softly. "There he is." Michiko grinned and waited while Leslie spied on Tattoo emerging into the small yard at the back of the terrace. To her relief, he spotted the gift-wrapped box she had left on a wrought-iron bench and detoured toward it. He lifted her card and read it aloud: " 'For You'?" She grinned broadly when he opened the card and read the message she had written inside: "Happy birthday, Tattoo." With a chuckle he dropped the card on the bench and lifted the lid of the box, extracting the small silver handbell that Leslie had managed to find at the gift shop two days earlier. He examined it curiously, then grasped it by its brass handle, tipped it upright and rang it.

That was the cue. Leslie jumped back from the shutters so that Roarke, waiting nearby, could push them open, and they, along with all those waiting in the study, shouted, "Surprise!" and spilled out into the yard. A couple of the kitchen workers pushed along a big cake on a wheeled table, around which everyone gathered to sing "Happy Birthday to You" while Tattoo stared on, his face alight.

Roarke grinned at him when the applause had ended. "Forgive my little ruse, my friend, but we wanted to surprise you—right?" This last he directed at the guests, who all chorused agreement and clapped once more. "Now," Roarke added, "before we continue with the festivities, there is someone I want you to meet. Come this way, please." He led Tattoo beyond the immediate gathering; Leslie followed for a few steps, with Michiko just behind her, then veered around a vine-covered latticework and vanished. Tattoo glanced after her, but then had reason to forget about this when Roarke introduced him to the older man who stood studying an assortment of Tattoo's sketches displayed in a crescent of easels. Mark Ellison stood by his side. "Tattoo, this is Mr. Alfred Gérard, general manager of the Traditional Dance Company of Paris. He wants to buy some of your sketches."

"My honor," Tattoo exclaimed, shaking hands with Gérard.

"It is my honor, I assure you. And this…this is really extraordinary work." Gérard swept his hand to indicate the easels, then began to move along the line of them, examining individual sketches here and there. Tattoo, thanking him, hesitated when he paused in front of the third sketch from the end. "And this young lady: is she one of our dancers?" he asked of Ellison. It was a color sketch of Solange.

"Uh, no sir…not exactly," Ellison began, sounding flustered.

"But she's a better dancer than I am a painter," Tattoo spoke up.

"I would like to see her," Gérard said expectantly.

Roarke smiled. "You are about to, Mr. Gérard." He indicated the latticework set up on a portable wooden flooring unit nearby; for the first time Tattoo noticed Leslie and Michiko sitting together, one on either side of a portable reel-to-reel tape recorder. A flash of yellowish-orange caught their eyes then and they all turned to see Solange Latignon emerge from behind the latticework, clad in a sunflower-colored silk dress.

"Many happy returns, Tattoo," she said softly. "This is for you." Roarke gestured at Leslie, who switched on the tape player. A tune with a leisurely beat was broadcast across the yard, and Solange began her performance as the men took seats at a table to watch. Ellison, left standing, looked on, his face gradually becoming more and more consternated as Solange proved her talent. And she danced—for Gérard, for Tattoo, but most of all for herself. All eyes were on her, unable to tear themselves away till the music ended and Solange had completed her dance.

Applause broke out, and Tattoo stood up to deliver his ovation. Leslie stopped the recorder, exchanging a grin with Michiko, and then got up to stand beside her guardian's chair, clapping as she did. Michiko followed her that far before going off to get a share of the birthday cake.

Solange curtseyed in response and then approached the table, where Gérard arose and smiled at her. "Young lady, that was an astounding display. You have a rare and natural talent. What's your name?"

"Solange Latignon, _m'sieur,"_ she answered politely.

"_Enchanté,"_ Gérard said with a nod.

Roarke spoke up, a deliberateness in his voice: "Mr. Ellison has had his eye on Miss Latignon for some time, I understand." Abruptly caught out, Ellison stared sullenly into the near distance.

Gérard turned to him and inquired in a chilly tone, "Why didn't you tell me this, Mark?" Ellison shifted his gaze with obvious reluctance.

"Well, actually, sir, I was waiting for her to, uh…" He hesitated, fielded the icy stare Tattoo was drilling him with, and finally said, "Honestly, sir, I was not aware of what I had." Tattoo sighed, looking disgusted; Leslie and Roarke looked at each other.

"I see," murmured Gérard and focused on Solange. "Well, Miss Latignon, we must discuss your future over breakfast tomorrow…right, Mark?" This last was directed over his shoulder at Ellison, who could do no more than mumble agreement. Gérard smiled at Solange, then nodded at Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie. "Excuse us. Coming, Mark?" He departed without checking to see if Ellison followed; the latter man gave Solange a polite nod and left them without another word.

Solange looked hopefully at Tattoo and pleaded, "Tattoo, could we talk?"

"Sure," Tattoo agreed, the warmth reentering his eyes and face. "Excuse me, boss, Leslie." Roarke nodded and Leslie smiled, both watching them retreat to sit on a bench some distance away. They could, however, still hear the conversation, though they didn't actively try to listen.

Solange picked up a flat handbag and opened the flap. "Tattoo, I found this," she said, withdrawing a sheet of paper that had been folded over a couple of times but still bore creases, as if from a crumpling. "That's why you didn't show up today—you saw me with Mr. Ellison."

"You don't have to say anything," Tattoo told her gently, making Leslie smile a little to herself. _Maybe my words were right after all and he's giving her the benefit of the doubt!_

"But I want to," Solange protested. "He tricked me. I was trying to get rid of him so I could be with you. Please believe that."

"Solange, I believe you," Tattoo assured her with a tiny smile.

She looked relieved, then drew in a breath. "You know how much I want…need to dance," she began, as if unsure where to start.

"Well, it's your big chance now," Tattoo said brightly.

"No," she said, shaking her head, surprising Leslie into gazing openly at them. "I'm not going on the tour. I'd like to stay here—with you."

Startled and touched, Tattoo seemed to consider her words for a long moment before smiling ruefully and looking back at her. "Solange, I cannot let you do that. Give up your career for me?"

"Tattoo, I happen to think you're more of a man than anyone else I know," Solange said fervently. "And with a paintbrush in your hand, you're a giant." Leslie blinked, her eyes beginning to sting; it was clear to her that Solange had developed feelings for Tattoo as well, and it thrilled her for her honorary uncle's sake.

"No one has ever made me feel that way before," Tattoo admitted, gazing at her, all too plainly tempted to give in. But his conscience won out again and he murmured gruffly, "It's not gonna work."

"Don't say that," she pleaded.

Tattoo insisted, "Solange, you were born to dance. I cannot let you waste such a gift. You must dance for the world. And when you perform in the big city, I'll be dancing beside you." She gave him an odd look, and he clarified, "Not this me…but the me inside." He placed both hands over his chest and smiled at her. "He's a terrific dancer," he kidded gently when he saw Solange's sorrowful expression, and she let out a tiny huff of amusement, tears sparkling brightly in her eyes.

"Oh, Tattoo," she said wistfully.

Someone tapped Leslie's shoulder and she twisted guiltily around, staring up at her guardian. "Come here, it's time we brightened the mood a little," he said and grinned at her. Relieved, she stood up and accompanied him and one of his employees over to where Solange and Tattoo sat. "Mademoiselle, Tattoo, I hope we're not intruding."

"Not at all, boss," Tattoo assured him.

"Miss Latignon tells me you wish to paint her portrait, Tattoo, in oil." As Roarke spoke, the native man began setting up an easel and outfitting it with a canvas and Tattoo's paints, brush and smock.

Tattoo eyed him in surprise. "You mean, now?"

"Well, she's leaving tomorrow," Roarke pointed out, "am I correct?" Solange turned and looked at Tattoo, who gazed steadily back; finally she looked back at Roarke and nodded, the wistful quality of her voice still lingering in the motion.

"Well, then! Toulouse-Lautrec often worked throughout the night, and I can't think of a lovelier setting, Tattoo! Would you mind coming here, Miss Latignon?" Solange got up and crossed the dance floor she had earlier made such grand use of, and Roarke stopped her in front of some broad-leaved bushes and a torchière, examining the scene. "Yes…yes, I think that's ver y nice. Tattoo?"

Silence fell, broken only by the distant _chee-chee_ of crickets, as Tattoo got up and went to stand behind the easel, gauging the setting with his own critical artist's eye. Roarke glanced at Leslie, who stood watching with her hands clasped behind her back, and prodded, "Well, Tattoo, what do you think?"

Tattoo's dark eyes twinkled and he said with a grin, "Toulouse-Lautrec, eat your heart out!" Roarke, Leslie and Solange burst into laughter, and Tattoo beamed back at them before lifting the palette and preparing to mix the paints he needed.

"Oh!" Leslie blurted, coming suddenly to life. "Wait before you start doing that, Tattoo. Mr. Roarke, we almost forgot!"

Roarke's eyes widened as he realized what she meant. "You're right, Leslie! Go ahead and get the packages."

"I'll bring you a piece of cake while I'm doing that," Leslie added to Tattoo, who was staring questioningly at her.

"I don't know that Toulouse-Lautrec ate cake while he painted," Roarke teased her.

"You never know," Leslie replied with a grin, "but even if he didn't, Tattoo should at least have some of his own birthday cake." The adults laughed agreement and she rushed off to get the items in question.

"Boss, what's she talking about?" Tattoo asked.

"Just wait," Roarke said with a smile. "I think you'll like these gifts."

Several minutes later Leslie came back carrying a plate of cake and two boxes; Roarke pulled a table over to stand near the easel, and Leslie set her burden down on it. "There," she said. "Go ahead and open them."

"Right this minute, huh?" Tattoo said with an indulgent grin. "Okay, if you insist." He read the card on the top box, which happened to be Leslie's, and chuckled when an entire sheet of paper fell out. She went pink and glanced at Solange and Roarke.

"What would that be?" Roarke queried with interest.

"I just wrote him a little letter, that's all," she said and stared at her shoes for a moment, adding, "You might want to wait and read it later on, Tattoo."

"If it's as mushy as I think it is, I probably should," Tattoo joshed her with a wide grin. Her look of relief made him laugh before he turned his attention to her gift and removed the paper. His expression was priceless when he saw what lay inside. _"Sacre bleu!_ The Swiss Special paints! Leslie, this is perfect! These things cost a fortune…and you were willing to go to all that trouble for me?"

"I just figured it was time you finished all those half-done paintings in your studio," she kidded him back, and again everyone laughed. Tattoo was equally delighted with the colors Roarke had given him.

"I'll break them in right now," he said and promptly made good on his word, busily mixing paint and taking the occasional bite of cake in between. Roarke and Leslie watched for a while, themselves having some cake; Michiko wandered over and looked on as well, met Solange, and talked with Leslie for some time before Sheriff Tokita came to get her while Tattoo was painting Solange's face. A few minutes after he and Michiko had left, Roarke decreed that Leslie needed to get some sleep as well, due to the next day being a school day. Before going in for the night, Leslie brought Solange a slice of cake, then hesitated.

"Is something wrong?" Solange asked.

"No," Leslie said, quickly shaking her head. "It's just…" She leaned over and whispered in Solange's ear: "I hope you come back someday. I've never seen Tattoo look so happy."

Solange smiled at her, a little misty-eyed. _"Merci beaucoup,_ Leslie."

"All right, Leslie," Tattoo called out then, "I'm not painting the back of your head. Do me a favor and move out of the way, please?"

With a laugh, Leslie skipped aside. "Sorry! Well, good night, everybody…and happy birthday again, Tattoo." He smiled at her before returning to his painting, and she grinned and headed into the house.

§ § § -- February 23, 1981

"What can I possibly say, Mr. Roarke?" Jerome Pepper said, coming to shake Roarke's hand at the plane dock the following morning. "You have a rare talent for turning losers into winners."

"Well," Roarke said, "as Mr. Frank Sinatra says, all of us can be winners."

Thalia sighed softly. "To think that Jerome and I wasted seven precious years afraid to talk to each other." She leaned her forehead against his.

"Emmett and I wasted a lot more than that," confessed Amelia Selby.

"All the more to make up for, Amelia, with our merger," Latham said with a smile.

Tattoo smiled too. "It just goes to show you—never fear to speak what's in your heart."

"That is the only way that lonely people can truly find each other," Roarke concurred with a nod. Everyone shook hands before the four guests headed for the landing dock, and the next rover pulled up bearing Solange. Roarke stepped aside to let Tattoo assist her out.

"Thank you, Tattoo," she said and paused in front of them. "Mr. Roarke, I feel like a thief. You gave Tattoo a fantasy, and I took it over—used it to make my dream come true."

"You did not take it, Miss Latignon," Roarke said. "Tattoo gave it."

"A fantasy is always better when you can share it with someone," Tattoo said, and Solange smiled wistfully at him.

"Tattoo, please, don't forget me," she requested softly.

"Never," he replied and smiled. _"Adieu,_ Solange." And once more he kissed her hand. Solange smiled at Roarke and Leslie, then walked slowly toward the plane dock, pausing once to turn and gaze back. Tattoo waved, and she waved back, a sad little smile on her face, before retreating into the charter's cabin.

"Perhaps one day, she will return to the island," Roarke said.

"I hope she does," Leslie agreed.

Tattoo gazed after Solange. "Maybe not, but she will never leave me."

"Because of the painting?" Leslie guessed, and Tattoo nodded and withdrew the completed canvas from the back of the station wagon that would shortly take Leslie to school. It was a wonderful, lifelike rendering of Solange, and Leslie had no doubt that it would be mounted in a prominent place in Tattoo's cottage. Silent for several moments, each with private thoughts, they watched the pontoon plane taxi across the lagoon on its way toward takeoff from the open ocean.

Only then did Tattoo speak. "Thank you, boss," he said with solemn feeling. "You gave me a fantasy I can keep my whole life." They all smiled at one another and let their gazes stray back to the lagoon.

§ § § -- July 4, 2006

Rory looked decidedly disgusted when they wrapped it up. "Yuck! Falling in love with some gross girl!" he snorted, screwing up his face. "I'm _never_ doing that."

"That, me boyo, is because you're but six years old and a long way from thinkin' that the lasses are anything but necessary annoyances," Rogan said indulgently. "Just you wait, maybe seven or eight years. Maybe not even that long, nowadays."

"Please," Julie begged, "let me have the illusion for a little longer that I have a nice, sweet little boy who goes around telling everybody that the only girl he likes is his mother." Everyone laughed, and she grinned a little sheepishly. "Well, what else can you tell us about? I'm up for a good action story, and I'll bet Rogan and Christian and especially Rory here are dying for something similar after this nice romantic love story."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other. "You want action, do you?" Leslie said and rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Brace yourself, my love, here's another little danger-and-adventure tale. Father, remember the weekend that madman came to the island and spent the entire two days trying over and over again to do you in?"

"Ah yes," Roarke said and shook his head. "Perhaps she's correct, Christian, you'd better brace yourself." He grinned at Christian's dubious expression and, along with Leslie, proceeded to relate the story.

§ § § -- March 4, 1982

"You don't mind if I bow out this weekend, do you, uncle?" Julie asked two days beforehand, looking hopeful. "I know you assigned me to that special fantasy and I'm really looking forward to seeing what a billion B.C. was like. But once that's been done, I need to work on some finances. I think it won't be long before I've got enough money to open up my house as a bed-and-breakfast inn, and I need to tally up how much more I've got to go."

"Oh, that's fine, Julie," Roarke said absently, his primary attention centered on a letter that lay on the desk in front of him. "Go ahead."

"Thanks," Julie replied. "See you later." She hurried out of the house, and Tattoo, who stood by the desk as well, squinted at the object of Roarke's scrutiny.

"Boss, you did hear her, didn't you?" he asked.

"Of course, my friend, of course," murmured Roarke. "Oh, uh…when Leslie returns home from school, would you accompany her to the dentist's office? She has a four-o'clock appointment for a cleaning, and I am afraid I can't go with her."

"Sure, boss," Tattoo said, giving the letter one more dubious look before shrugging and changing the subject. "By the way…Jean-Claude wants fugu this weekend."

That got Roarke's attention, and he looked up in disbelief. "You can't be serious, Tattoo! Are you quite sure that's what he said?"

"Positive, boss," Tattoo replied with a nod. "What's wrong with it?"

"Doesn't he realize that fugu can be poisonous unless prepared with the utmost care?" Roarke demanded. "That fish is a Japanese delicacy, and it is my understanding that even the most experienced Japanese chefs cannot escape the possibility of accidentally killing one of their diners, for that fish is invariably fatal if the poison is ingested! I suggest you tell Jean-Claude in no uncertain terms that I refuse to fill his request. It's simply too risky."

"Weird," Tattoo muttered. "You know, now that I think about it, it did seem to me as if Jean-Claude had designs on someone." He sighed, shrugged and left the house. Roarke watched him go, shook his head incredulously and went back to the letter on the desk, giving a deep sigh. This weekend was going to be a particular challenge, and he was more than a little worried. But he felt obligated to try to defuse the situation he knew was in the offing, and that meant he must grant the fantasy, no matter how reluctant he might be.

§ § § -- March 6, 1982

Roarke and Leslie emerged from the main house together and paused at the top of the porch steps; Roarke eyed his watch while Leslie cursorily checked the weather. A few seconds later Tattoo crossed the porch and said cheerfully, "Good morning, boss and Leslie!"

"Good morning, Tattoo," Roarke said. "Have you seen Julie?"

"Remember, she's working with Mrs. Brannan on her one-billion-B.C. fantasy," Tattoo told him.

"Oh, yes," Roarke said. "As I recall, Julie was going to help Mrs. Brannan introduce women's lib into that ancient society." Following Leslie's gaze skyward, he snapped his pocket watch shut and replaced it.

"Right, boss, but I don't think Julie is doing too well," Tattoo remarked. His words drew Leslie's attention back from the sky, and Roarke eyed him quizzically; Tattoo gestured to the clearing, and they all watched as a primitive man wielding a gigantic club chased a similarly dressed woman our of the trees.

"Now you listen, Molog," the woman yelled. "That club is not the answer to every suggestion I make—!!" The last word came out in a shriek as the man swung the club at her with deadly intent and she ducked it. Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie all winced in unison, watching the two race out of sight again.

"Well, obviously that culture isn't quite ready to adopt women's rights yet," Roarke observed dryly. "Shall we go?" Leslie and Tattoo shared a glance full of wry amusement as they followed Roarke to the car that pulled up.

At the plane dock Roarke carried out the usual ritual of calling for smiles and signaling the band and dancers into motion; he buttoned his jacket just before the first guest stepped out of the plane. It was a dark-haired man standing there staring into space and fussily smoothing the suit he wore. A moment later a woman with short brown hair climbed out to join him. "Mr. Jack Hecker," Roarke introduced him, "a successful clothing manufacturer."

"He's here for the fashion show, right, boss?" Tattoo prompted.

"Quite right, Tattoo," Roarke said.

Tattoo grinned. "I bet I know who she is," he said.

"All right, go ahead," Roarke said indulgently.

"She's Mr. Hecker's top fashion model," Tattoo said.

Leslie shook her head. "No, I think she's his secretary."

"I'm afraid you'd both lose your bets, although you were close, Leslie," Roarke said. "Actually, she is Miss Suzi Swann, Mr. Hecker's assistant—his girl Friday for the last five years—and she is hopelessly in love with him."

"What is her fantasy?" Tattoo provided the usual question on cue.

"Miss Swann's fantasy is to fall out of love with Mr. Hecker."

Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other. _"Out_ of love?" Leslie echoed.

"Boss, that's a new one for us, right?" Tattoo observed with a grin.

"Indeed," Roarke said and left it at that—for at that moment, a tall, solidly built man exited the charter plane. He had the cruelest face Leslie had ever seen on any human being, with a large lantern jaw and an ice-blue glare under a perpetual scowl. She edged a step or two closer to Roarke, instantly nervous for no reason she could name.

Clearly Tattoo had the same impression. "Boss, what a cold-looking face! Who is he?"

"Mr. Frank Barton," Roarke said, "formerly a demolition expert, now a world-famous hunter." Leslie scowled; she had heard a few mentions of the man, but had never seen what he looked like till now.

"What's his fantasy?" asked Tattoo again.

"His fantasy is to have the most exciting hunt of his life."

That didn't surprise either Tattoo or Leslie; the former contemplated the man whose face looked as if someone had inexpertly chiseled it from stone and said, "That's not gonna be easy."

Roarke shook his head once or twice. "It will be quite a challenge to provide Mr. Barton with what he wants."

"Well, I'm betting on the hunter," Tattoo remarked with a grin.

Roarke looked contemplative. "You may be right, Tattoo," he said, half to himself. At which point his drink arrived and he greeted his guests as always; but Leslie couldn't shake a feeling of severe dread. She glanced at Frank Barton and shivered violently, all but hiding behind her oblivious guardian.


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § -- March 6, 1982

"Oh, I know what people say about me, Mr. Roarke. 'Good old Suzi, everybody's doormat.' " The trio were in Suzi Swann's bungalow listening to their guest, an attractive woman somewhere in her thirties. "It's just that I really like people. I like helping them."

"People like you are often misunderstood, Miss Swann. But your feelings for Mr. Hecker are much stronger than mere liking, or you wouldn't be here," Roarke observed.

Suzi shook her head. "Oh, I love Jack. It's as simple as that. But he has no time for love or me," she grumbled, pacing away from them again. Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie glanced at one another. "Success is everything to him. You know, when he first started out, he couldn't even afford a storefront. Then his designs started catching on, and look where he is today." She held a look of pride for a moment; then she frowned and complained, "But in all that time, he's never once looked at me as a woman, or understood how I felt."

"You didn't tell him that you love him?" Tattoo asked.

"Oh, I never had the courage, Tattoo. Besides, love is a two-way street, isn't it?" Tattoo nodded in understanding, and Suzi turned to Roarke. "I'm just tired of hurting. Please make me fall out of love, Mr. Roarke. Set me free."

Roarke digested her words for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision. "All right, Miss Swann," he said, rising from his chair, "but there is only one way to do that—by concentrating your emotions on the opposite of love."

"You mean…hate?" Suzi asked.

Tattoo nodded and said solemnly, "That's exactly what my boss means."

"But I've never hated anyone in my life," Suzi protested. Roarke made an _it can't be helped_ expression, glancing at Leslie, who shrugged a little. "But," Suzi went on, "if that's the only way…then I'm ready. Teach me to hate."

Roarke nodded once and gestured to his assistant, who held a small wooden box. "Tattoo?" The young Frenchman handed the box to Suzi, who opened it and discovered three large gumdrops inside: one green, one red and one yellow. Leslie stood on tiptoe trying to see the contents; she could just barely glimpse them, the way Suzi held them.

Suzi looked up curiously. "They look like gumdrops."

Tattoo grinned at her. "That's what they are."

"Except for one thing. The sugar content," Roarke explained, "has been extracted from a very special fruit that grows only here on Fantasy Island. It contains a certain ingredient which induces…um…" He considered it for a moment, searching for an appropriately descriptive phrase. "Shall we say, a reverse emotional response in anyone who tastes it."

"You mean, I eat one of these whenever…" Suzi began.

"Whenever you feel the need to experience emotional hate, Miss Swann, yes."

"That's hard to believe," Suzi murmured, lifting out the yellow gumdrop and licking a little of the sugar off the bottom. Roarke watched with an expectant smile; Tattoo's was that enigmatic one he sometimes wore that always made Leslie wonder if he'd been taking lessons from Roarke. For her part, she leaned over the back of the chair where Roarke had lately been sitting, wondering what would happen.

They all seemed to see and hear sound effects that evoked rage: huge intense lightning bolts with enormous thunderclaps; an exploding volcano; the mushroom cloud of an atomic-bomb blast. Leslie shot a glance at Roarke; though she stood mostly behind him, she could still see from his profile that he was smiling knowingly.

Suzi blinked, stared at them all, and then snapped, "You know something, Mr. Roarke? I just met you, and already I don't like you." Roarke's brows elevated, and Leslie drew back from the chair as though it had burned her, startled. "I don't like any one of you. You're too short, you're a nosy little girl, and you…you've got a funny accent." Leslie gasped as Suzi turned and stalked away toward the door to the bedroom, while Roarke and an affronted Tattoo exchanged glances. Even Roarke seemed a little discomfited by Suzi's remarks.

Suzi abruptly stopped, and the strange explosive effects they'd seen ghosts of a few seconds before appeared to reverse themselves while they gaped at her. Then Suzi slowly rotated to gawk at her hosts with an aghast look on her face at the memory of her last words to them.

"You see, Miss Swann?" Roarke said softly. "They do really work. So be careful…be very careful."

Suzi opened the box and regarded the innocuous-looking candies inside. "I've _gotta_ be careful how I use these," she agreed emphatically, shaking her head.

Leaving Suzi to herself, they left the bungalow; the moment they got outside, Leslie blurted, "Do you think she was right and I'm really nosy, Mr. Roarke? I mean, 'little' is just plain stupid…I'm almost seventeen, after all. But nosy? What if she's right and I really am?"

"Leslie, may I remind you that Miss Swann was under the influence of the gumdrop," Roarke said firmly.

"Yeah, well…" She frowned doubtfully. "It reminds me of something Mom told me once when I was nine or ten. She said that when someone's angry or upset, they tend to say what they really mean, or what they're really secretly thinking. And I've seen examples of it…had them directed at me, too."

"Your mother was very wise, Leslie," Roarke said, "but all the same, you must learn to ascertain when you should take criticism to heart and when to let it pass. Now let's set this discussion aside for the moment; Mr. Barton is undoubtedly waiting for us."

In fact, he wasn't; and since he was nowhere in sight and there was some free time due to his tardiness, Roarke set up a curious little gadget in the middle of the floor after moving the club chairs aside. Tattoo watched with interest and Leslie with some confusion. "What's that thing?"

"It's a putting cup, to help me practice," Roarke told her. He stood across the room with a golf club and a few balls, tapped one of the balls toward the gadget and watched it roll neatly inside. A moment later, a little lever tripped within the device and ejected the ball, which rolled back toward Roarke.

"Oh, that's cute," Leslie said, "but since when do you have time for golf?"

Roarke laughed. "You have a point there," he conceded. "But since your honorary uncle here has repeatedly told me I should learn to relax a little more often, I thought I might take his advice to heart. And this was where I began."

Just then the door opened and Frank Barton let himself in without knocking or waiting for an invitation. He paused to watch Roarke hit another ball toward the putting cup, the perpetual scowl never leaving his features; though he leaned against the support post beside the steps in a semblance of relaxed waiting, he looked extremely tense, coiled, ready at all times to spring. Patience clearly was not a virtue he possessed. After less than a minute he said, eyes trained on the ceiling to underline his exasperation, "Mr. Roarke, I came here to discuss my fantasy."

"Oh, I've given it much thought, Mr. Barton," Roarke assured him. "Although I prefer a more relaxing sport…" He paused long enough to knock another ball into the cup. "I have gone to great pains to consider a hunt worthy of your ability. Please, make yourself comfortable, Mr. Barton." He gestured at a chair and went to sit in his own; Tattoo took the golf club to set it aside. "Thank you, Tattoo." Leslie, now the one nearest to Barton, had no problem giving in to her constant nervousness around the guest and promptly ducked around the desk to stand just behind her guardian's chair. Roarke went on: "Unfortunately, I am against killing animals for sport; and you've already proven your skill against such game."

"Glad you agree," Barton said coolly. "A safari is not what I had in mind."

"Oh?" said Roarke expressionlessly.

"No animal is a match for me," Barton informed him, pushing himself off the support post and approaching the desk. "Granted, trapped or wounded, they can be ferocious; but intellect, Mr. Roarke—intellect is what can make an adversary really dangerous."

"There can be only one adversary with intellect," Roarke said, motionless and calm in his chair, his dark eyes narrow. "Man himself. That's murder, Mr. Barton."

"Oh, I agree…if we were talking about a traditional hunt. Certainly nothing is safe in my gunsights. No, Mr. Roarke, what I had in mind…what I envisioned…was a game of wits, like a high-stakes poker game." He settled on the edge of the desk and leaned toward Roarke with an intensity that made Leslie inch back a little farther behind the chair. "Very high stakes."

Slowly Roarke sat up and rested both elbows on the desk, returning Barton's stare without flinching, his eyes as steely black as Barton's were icy blue. "Say what you mean."

"You're the game for the kind of hunt I've got in mind, Roarke," Barton said flatly. Tattoo glanced at Roarke with dawning worry in his eyes; Leslie's knuckles whitened with her grip on the back of the chair. Roarke's eyes narrowed again. "With the condition," Barton added, "that you can't use your so-called 'special powers'."

Roarke nodded, the definition of calm. "Of course, you know the essence of a truly great hunt holds danger for the hunter, as well as the hunted."

"Exactly why I'm here," Barton said.

"Boss, you'd be a sitting duck," Tattoo protested at last. Leslie's tongue was frozen by her mounting horror and fright.

Roarke glanced at him, then sat back and nodded slightly. "Very well, I accept your terms." Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other, stunned.

"No special powers?" Barton pressed.

"No special powers," Roarke agreed tranquilly. Barton grinned a cruel, feral grin and headed for the door, no doubt convinced his weekend was made; but then Roarke's voice followed him. "However…if you're not successful in the next twenty-four hours, there will be no holds barred on my part."

"Fair enough." Barton's gaze became glacial; he snapped, "Good day," and left.

Instantly Tattoo turned to a pensive-looking Roarke. "Boss, why are you doing it?"

Roarke sighed gently. "I have very special reasons, Tattoo," he responded.

"B-b-b-but you…" Leslie's tongue, having thawed out finally, now seemed to have a case of the delirium tremens, along with the rest of her. "Y-you could g-g-get hurt, or…or…" The last word wouldn't come out at all, and she abandoned all effort to say it.

Tattoo opened his mouth to elaborate on her words, but Roarke cut him off, speaking softly. "Now, will you go and prepare things for our other guest's fantasy, please?" Tattoo hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Thank you." Leslie watched Tattoo depart, glancing over his shoulder several times.

"Mr. Roarke…" Leslie began in a tiny voice.

"I know, child," he said and took her hand long enough to squeeze it. "Worry if you must, but I would appreciate a little faith."

She swallowed and forced herself to speak in slow, measured cadence, to keep from stammering. "But it's just that this guy's an unknown quantity. There's no telling what's gonna happen. I'm really scared, Mr. Roarke. I mean…his whole attitude says he's willing to play any trick, no matter how filthy it is, just so he can win."

"Which is why I intend to take all possible precautions," Roarke assured her, rising. "I have an appointment to keep, so if you would kindly stay here in case any calls come in, I would appreciate it." She nodded and stepped aside to let Roarke past as he headed for a coat tree where his suit jacket hung.

She was watching him, so that she saw everything that happened next. In the midst of donning the jacket, Roarke froze and yanked his hand back out of the sleeve, then spread the jacket panels so wide that she could see what had caused the commotion. Clinging to the inner lining was a titanic-sized spider, some tropical variety nearly a foot across, with wide stripes on its legs. Leslie let out a terrified shriek and recoiled back, saving Roarke the need to push her out of harm's way. He gave the jacket a sharp shake, dislodging the spider, which fell to the floor. Roarke draped the jacket on the desk and picked up a square wooden trash receptacle, overturning it and placing it atop the spider. "Call the animal-control officer in town, Leslie," he directed, voice tense but even.

As she picked up the phone, Roarke retrieved the jacket and began to put it on, but again stopped, causing Leslie's hand to hover over the phone dial. This time he withdrew an envelope from the breast pocket behind the black handkerchief he always kept there. She waited while he took out a single sheet of paper and unfolded it, reading aloud: _"Lucky for you, my little friend is harmless, Roarke. If I had wanted, you'd already be dead." _ He looked up at her gasp.

"Why aren't you calling, Leslie?" he asked, brow raised, as if teasing her.

She refused to be cajoled into a lighter mood. "I will, Mr. Roarke—I don't want that monster in here any longer than it has to be, even if it _is_ harmless. But I don't think you should've agreed to grant this fantasy."

"I fully understand your trepidation," he said with a gentle smile, "and I can see that Mr. Barton is going to keep me quite busy. But you know as well as I: the fantasy has begun, and it can't be stopped."

‡ ‡ ‡

As it happened, Barton had invited Roarke to lunch that noon; Leslie wanted to go as well, afraid of letting her guardian out of her sight, but he firmly declined. "I'd far rather you were as uninvolved as possible. And it will take a great deal off my mind if I knew you were here at the house in safety, with Tattoo."

She sighed, unable to refuse him when he put it that way. "I guess I understand, Mr. Roarke. But I'm going to be here waiting for you to come back." He smiled at that, ran a hand across her hair and departed.

Roarke met Barton at the pond restaurant, where the waitress placed a loaded plate in front of him as soon as he took his seat. "Mr. Roarke, I'm glad you could join me," Barton said, almost civilly. "I hope you don't mind; I took the liberty of ordering a special King Emmanuel lobster salad for you." Roarke glanced at him, then smiled.

"Excellent choice," he said. He lifted his fork and regarded the plate in silence for a moment, long enough to catch Barton's notice.

"What's the matter, Mr. Roarke? Something upset your appetite?" Barton inquired, too solicitously.

"Oh, I don't scare that easily, Mr. Barton," Roarke said with a smile.

Barton shrugged. "Well, if you're just gonna stare at your food…" He reached over and speared a lettuce leaf with his fork, popping it into his mouth. Roarke watched closely as Barton focused on him. "Delicious." Then he seemed to notice something in Roarke's unwavering gaze and demanded, "Do you think I'd be that obvious?"

Roarke smiled again. "Perhaps I underestimated you…but I seriously doubt it." He speared a chunk of lobster with his fork. "You know, I'm not really very hungry. Perhaps you'd like another bite of mine?" With that, he offered the fork to Barton, who went still; Roarke waited, eyes narrowing slightly.

Barton chuckled shortly and accepted the fork, regarding the food on it. "Very, very good, Mr. Roarke," he acknowledged. "You are catching on." Roarke nodded in response, and Barton idly rotated the fork in one hand. "Actually, it's an interesting chemical I put on your fork. It's easily activated by a person's saliva." As Roarke watched, Barton stuck the fork into his glass of water; the liquid began to bubble. "Just a short time in your stomach, and…" The water fizzed to the point of opacity, and Barton lifted out the fork, which now was only a handle, with the lobster a distant memory and the tines completely dissolved away. Roarke sat back in grim silence. "A little trick I picked up from a village elder while searching for the Abominable Snowman in Tibet. You escaped this time, Roarke." Roarke smiled slightly in acknowledgement. "But I promise you, within twenty-four hours, you'll be dead."

Roarke merely gazed at him. Barton seemed a little perturbed by his unflappability, but smiled his frigid, cruel smile all the same.

Roarke had in fact lied when he'd told Barton he wasn't hungry; he had the salad wrapped and brought it back to the main house, where Tattoo was out front setting up a record player on a table near the fountain and Leslie was lingering moodily over her lunch. She gasped and lit up when Roarke came to the table to take his usual chair. "Oh good, you survived!" she blurted.

Roarke laughed softly. "Indeed I did. For heaven's sake, Leslie, finish your lunch…or do you want the usual scolding from Mana'olana?" She made a face that brought out another laugh, and began to tuck into her meal with the gusto born of relief. He himself greatly enjoyed the salad, knowing he was eating it with implements that hadn't been tampered with.

After the meal he retreated to do some paperwork, and Leslie joined Tattoo out front, where by now he had a hula class well under way. "More hips, please, more hips," Tattoo called out as she settled on the edge of the fountain near the table holding the record player, watching avidly and then laughing when Tattoo added, "All right, watch me," and cranked his hips back and forth. His five or six students tried to emulate him, though Leslie thought they were doing just fine. "Watch your hands."

Before he could add any further instructions, the record player suddenly died and the song wound down to a halt. "What happened to that thing?" Leslie asked in surprise.

"Got me," Tattoo replied in perplexity, going to the unit and trying a few knobs without results. Leslie inspected the machine while Tattoo went back toward the porch, where Roarke was just coming down the steps. "Boss, the record player just broke down."

"Oh," said Roarke, glancing at Leslie standing beside the dead machine, "perhaps the generator has cut out again."

"But boss, I was right in the middle of my lesson," Tattoo protested.

"Don't sulk, my friend, I'll fix it," Roarke told him with a touch of impatience. Leslie glanced up and snickered. "Usually all it takes is a good swift kick." Tattoo nodded and started back for the clearing while Roarke made for the generator; Leslie watched him for a moment before a creeping feeling began to snake up the back of her neck. But Tattoo was quicker, and whipped around some distance shy of the fountain, blurting out, "The generator! Boss! It's booby-trapped!" Coincidentally, Roarke stopped just then in front of the machine, lifted his foot and delivered a quick boot to its side. "Boss, _no!!"_ yelled Tattoo and covered his face with his hands. Leslie couldn't move even that much, galvanized by Tattoo's shouts, and simply stared, helpless.

The generator sputtered back into life and Roarke stood up, nodding in satisfaction. Tattoo looked cautiously out from behind his hands, and Leslie drooped all at once and released a huge sigh, turning back toward the record player which had started up again. "There," Roarke commented cheerfully, "that's better."

"Boss," Tattoo groaned, "I thought it was booby-trapped."

"Tattoo," Roarke scolded amiably, "after all these years, have you no faith in me?"

"Sure, boss," Tattoo said, "but I didn't want anything to happen to you."

Roarke smiled warmly. "Thank you, Tattoo, thank you. But I know what I'm doing. Now, if you'll carry on with your hula lesson and stay with Leslie for me, I'll get the rover and attend to some other important business, all right?"

"All right, boss," Tattoo agreed, beaming in great relief, and promptly headed back to the clearing to join his boss' ward. Roarke smiled, returned Leslie's wave and went to the nearby garage to get the car, entering through a side door.

Tattoo had almost reached Leslie and the record player when the garage exploded. Tattoo nearly fell over from cranking around in shocked horror. Leslie instantly screamed, both frightened by the detonation and overcome with a tsunami of grief. "No," Tattoo wailed, "oh, no!" The hula students, stunned by the whole thing, stared in disbelief. Leslie crumpled to the edge of the fountain and broke down into gut-wrenching wails, and Tattoo went to her, himself in shock but trying valiantly to comfort her.

"I'm jinxed, Tattoo," Leslie bawled as he hugged her close. "Everybody close to me dies. Now I've even caused Mr. Roarke's death. And now that that creep's got Mr. Roarke, maybe he'll go after you too…"

"No," Tattoo said, his voice actually shaking with fury. "No, you didn't do it, that madman did. I have him thrown off this island before he kills me. You not worry, Leslie, I take care of you…" His broken English failed him entirely and he continued his diatribe in French that, to her ears, sounded as though it was liberally interwoven with curses. She wondered dimly what would happen to Fantasy Island, what was going to transpire with this weekend's other guests, and most of all, what would become of her.


	10. Chapter 10

§ § § -- March 6, 1982

"Hello," Barton called out. "Anybody here?" The pond restaurant was quiet and seemed deserted; he made his way back to the kitchen area, where he spotted a lone figure stirring the contents of a pot. "I had a message someone wanted to meet me here."

The figure stepped aside and turned around, and Barton's face slackened, getting somehow longer and more rectangular. "Roarke," he breathed in shock. "Oh, no, it's impossible."

Roarke offered a friendly smile, dipping some of the contents of the pot into a bowl. "This soup is a special creation of mine, Mr. Barton. Would you care for a sample?" He offered the bowl and a spoon to Barton, who seemed unable to get past his incredulity over Roarke's failure to perish in his explosion.

"But you…you're…" he stammered.

"Dead?" supplied Roarke, looking amazed and amused all at once. "Oh, don't tell me my little game of possum fooled you, the master game hunter? No!"

"I saw you walk in that garage with my own eyes," Barton gritted.

"Yes, you did," Roarke said amiably.

Barton's already narrow gaze managed to narrow even more. "You cheated. There's no way you could have survived that explosion without using some special power."

Roarke shook his head, his expression now grim. "I don't need special powers to beat you, Mr. Barton. I simply walked out the back door of the garage—that simple."

Barton shook his head and quirked a reluctant half-smile. "You are proving to be a worthy adversary, Mr. Roarke," he complimented grudgingly.

"Does that mean you wish to try again?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"You're positive you won't try my soup?" Once more Roarke offered the bowl. "I assure you, it's quite good."

Barton eyed him, then the bowl, then barked, "Oh no. No thank you, Mr. Roarke." With that he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

"Mr. Barton," Roarke called out, halting the man just shy of the door, "enjoy your fantasy." He lifted the spoon to his mouth and tasted the soup, then smiled broadly. "Mmmmmm…" Barton just glared, then resumed walking. This time Roarke let him go, releasing a quiet breath and slowly setting the bowl onto the nearby counter. It was probably time to get back to the main house and reassure his assistant and his ward, who still thought Barton had succeeded in killing him.

They both let out cries of relieved joy when he walked in, and Leslie threw herself at Roarke and hugged him so hard he actually gasped. Tattoo grinned at her emotional display, then looked up at his boss. "How'd you get out of there alive?"

"I merely departed by the rear door," Roarke replied, "just as I told Mr. Barton. And before you ask, Leslie, he also knows I am still alive, so this isn't over yet." He caught the way her face fell and lifted her chin so that she was looking up at him. "Perhaps it's time to see how Miss Swann is doing, hmm?"

Having been assured by Suzi that the gumdrops were working fine and that she now had a date with another man for that evening, Tattoo went off to make some routine rounds, while a nervous and clingy Leslie insisted on returning to the main house with Roarke. Well aware of her mindset and willing to indulge her under the circumstances, he agreed; later he would look back and be glad he had done so, for when they entered the empty study, she stopped short at the top of the foyer steps. "How come your putting whatchamacallit is sitting under that chair? That's not where you left it."

Roarke looked past her and saw that she was right on both counts. "Stay here, Leslie," he said quietly and slowly descended the steps, approaching with care. He lifted the chair up and set it aside, then knelt and gingerly picked up the putting cup. It felt heavier to him, and he turned it over, only to find the bottom cavity packed with some claylike white substance from which a couple of wires had been attached to the lever that kicked the golf ball back out of the cup.

"What's that stuff?" Leslie asked from the foyer, where she could easily see.

"An explosive putty," said Roarke. "Quite powerful in fact, and very sensitive. Get me a set of keys, Leslie; I'm going to take this to the police station so that an expert can remove this for me. You'll have to drive, for I don't dare put it down."

This process took most of an hour, and when they got back Roarke sent one of his employees to tell Barton to come to the main house before dispatching Tattoo and Leslie on an errand to the fishing village. Since that was located almost all the way across the island, he felt secure in the knowledge that they should be well out of harm's way, for he wanted to confront Frank Barton alone with his spur-of-the-moment plan. Fortunately, Barton's twenty-four hours would be up soon after breakfast on Sunday; but Roarke had no illusions that this macabre hunting game would get any easier thereafter.

He was going through the index in an ancient book he had inherited from his parents when Barton walked in. Roarke turned around in the chair that had been standing over the putting cup when he and Leslie had found it and arose when he saw his guest. "Ah, Mr. Barton, do come in. Have a seat, won't you?" He indicated the chair he had just vacated.

"No thank you, Mr. Roarke," Barton said crisply and eyed him with his hands in his pockets, stony face as unsmiling as ever. "Why'd you ask to see me?"

"I thought it my duty to remind you that time is running out on your fantasy," Roarke said amiably, smiling.

Barton grinned that feral grin. "I'm well aware of that," he assured his host.

Roarke moved a few steps aside, remarking, "I was hoping you might reconsider and drop this strange obsession of yours." He noticed, but pretended not to see, that Barton had caught sight of the putting cup, which now sat innocently at the edge of the Persian rug on the floor; the grim, straight slash of Barton's mouth was the only indicator of his sudden tension, but to Roarke it seemed to fill the room.

The man looked up and scoffed, "Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Roarke. I'm enjoying myself."

"You do remember, don't you, there will be serious consequences if you fail…"

"I remember," Barton said with a faux-relaxed chuckle.

Roarke strolled across the room and idly began tossing a golf ball in one hand. "I was hoping we might reach some sort of agreement. Frankly, Mr. Barton, I find it impossible to understand this…fascination you have with killing." Barton's gunmetal-blue eyes were fixed on the ball going up and down, even as he began to edge toward the foyer steps.

"It's not the kill, Mr. Roarke," he said tightly. "It's the excitement of the chase."

"Oh," responded Roarke in apparent understanding. "Oh, I see." He dropped a couple of balls on the floor, and Barton's axe-hewn features tightened abruptly. From the corner of his eye as he chose a golf club, Roarke saw Barton's gaze shoot back to the putting cup. Those scary eyes were wider than he had seen them since the man first arrived. _So he can feel fear as well,_ Roarke mused.

"Frankly, it's conversation that bores me," Barton snapped suddenly, mounting the steps into the foyer.

"Mr. Barton…" The increasingly agitated hunter paused and glared impatiently at him, and Roarke smiled at him. "You should try golf. It requires skill, a bit of luck…and nobody gets hurt." With that, he prepared to make a putt.

Barton's alarm expanded tenfold and he barked, "You're wasting my time, Roarke." With that he made for the door and grabbed the knob—only to find himself locked in. He twisted and turned it insistently, to no avail, and then whipped his head around just in time to see Roarke hit the ball. It rolled neatly across the carpet and missed the cup by a mere inch.

Barton released the knob and actually let out a relieved sigh, venturing back to the steps and staring apprehensively at the gadget. Roarke looked up, and when he saw where Barton's gaze was trained, smiled and said, "I am appreciative of your concern over my lack of skill." Barton gaped at him; then, as Roarke prepared to make the next shot, he bolted for the door and frantically wrestled with the knob again.

Roarke tapped the ball across the rug and into the cup—which merely evicted the ball back in his direction, without incident. Barton, still holding the knob, took in the scene with a stunned expression. Roarke cast him a sidelong glance before casually going over and picking up the object of the other man's anxious attention. Turning to Barton, he remarked idly, "Curiously, I found an explosive device in this putting cup today. They are popping up in the most unlikely places. Who knows—anyone might even find one in…his own room." His gaze iced over, and Barton scowled. "Perhaps even your room, Mr. Barton. Oh, by the way, I believe the door will open now." He prompted Barton with a finger, and the hunter reached out and turned it easily. The two men eyed each other coldly for one long moment; then Barton slammed out.

‡ ‡ ‡

It had been a rather long evening; though Roarke's little red-herring remark to Barton should keep him busy hunting down a bomb, as it had been designed to do, there was the other fantasy to worry about. Hecker had tried to interrupt Suzi's date in order to get her to come back to work, only to have Suzi pop one of her gumdrops and let him have another dose of her temper. As it happened, Hecker's dresses for the fashion show had been stolen while he was interfering, and Roarke had had to placate the man before returning to the main house around ten-thirty or so. Tattoo met him there, having just returned from making routine checks at the hotel, restaurant and casino, and after he'd made his verbal report, Roarke sent him home for the night.

Just as Tattoo closed the door, Roarke pulled open the top drawer of the desk, setting off a loud bang that made him jump in his chair and ward off the smoke that drifted out. He waved it away, wondering idly in the back of his mind why there had been no reaction from Leslie, and blew out the small flame that had flared to life before noting a cassette tape recorder wedged inside. He pulled it out, set it on the desk and punched the play button, at the same time Tattoo barreled back in.

"Hope my little smoke screen didn't scare you," Frank Barton's voice said, lightly mocking, from the little speaker. "But I needed to get your attention. I'm raising the stakes, Roarke. I've got Leslie. I'll leave a trail for you to follow at daylight, so you can find us in the jungle. If you don't…your little girl will die."

Volcanic fury ballooned within Roarke and he jabbed the stop button, ejected the tape and slammed it onto the desktop. Tattoo crossed the room, round face filled with horror. "That…that swine! _Un cochon!_ He's gone and kidnapped Leslie! What are we gonna do about it, boss?"

"As you heard," Roarke said tautly, "there will be a trail to follow at daybreak, but not before then. It's too dark to try to do anything now, and I don't believe Barton will take advantage of the edge he has over us at this moment. He's too enamored of the challenge I present to him."

Tattoo digested this at some length, nodding a little. "Do you think he'll hurt her?"

Roarke had to consider the concept for a moment or two; finally he shook his head in frustration. "To be perfectly honest, I don't know. But there simply isn't anything we can do about it till morning. However…" Tattoo watched Roarke's dark eyes narrow and grow black and icy with a towering rage. "As soon as we see the sun rise, I promise you and Leslie both…I'll pull out all the stops, and there will be hell to pay."

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie had been jolted out of one nightmare into another, and she had the feeling she preferred the dream to what she was experiencing now. She was still wondering how on earth she'd ever fallen asleep in the first place; when she'd awakened from the nightmare she'd known she would have, it had been to the Halloween specter of Frank Barton standing over her with his hand across her mouth. He'd forced her to dress, then dragged her down the stairs and out to a waiting jeep, where he'd tied her wrists and ankles together and then deposited her in the front seat before driving away to who knew where. They had eventually arrived at the Enclave's access road, where Barton had turned in and driven all the way to its end, then through a crudely hacked-out jungle lane that terminated unexpectedly on a small hilltop. He switched on the high beams, illuminating a crude campsite he had set up. "There's your bed for the night, kid," he said curtly, indicating a sleeping bag on the ground some distance away.

He hadn't touched her other than to tie her up, which gave her a trace of confidence. "How am I supposed to walk with my ankles tied?" she asked, hoping she sounded reasonable.

Barton gave her a sharp look, then smiled that feral smile that rendered his mouth little more than a stark slash across his face. "Think you're as smart as Roarke, do you? You can't outwit an old hand, little girl. Wait right there." He got out and came around to lift her out of her seat, carrying her over to the sleeping bag where he dumped her, none too gently. Leslie kept her face averted from his, afraid it would haunt her dreams for months to come. _As if I don't already have enough nightmares,_ she thought dismally.

She laboriously wriggled her way into the sleeping bag while Barton used the light of the headlights to string up wire like a low fence all the way around the campsite. Wide awake, Leslie had nothing else to do but watch him; he was oblivious till he had finished, then saw her staring. "Go to sleep, kid," was all he said before dousing the lights and leaving their camp bathed in the light of a full moon.

Despite the bright moonlight and her apprehension, Leslie eventually did doze off, only to be rudely awakened a second time the next morning when Barton grabbed her under the arms and bodily dragged her out of the sleeping bag. "Can't risk you running off," he said, almost cheerfully, and tightened the bonds she already wore before toting her across the grass and tethering her to a ninety-foot palm at the edge of the campsite. She tried to stay calm, wondering what he had planned.

To her surprise, he gathered some supplies together and vanished down the hillside. She supposed he was setting up booby traps, but didn't waste time dwelling on it, instead struggling fruitlessly to loosen the rope around her wrists. She had come down to trying to tug it loose with her teeth when Barton returned long enough to assemble a detonation device nearby, beside a rifle and a box of ammunition. He noticed her watching and leered at her. "I've got lots of surprises planned for your guardian," he announced, his grin widening when she glared back at him. She was still scared, but she was more than a little fed up with this man's repeated attempts to destroy them. "This entire area has been booby-trapped."

"Figures," she muttered, scowling. "I'd sure hate to be in your shoes. Mr. Roarke's gonna be absolutely furious."

Barton let out a mirthless one-note chuckle. "Good. Then he's more likely to make a mistake. But if he gets through…" He eyed Leslie with a look of demented anticipation. "We'll all go to hell together. I'll blow the top of this hill off."

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke had found it necessary to talk Tattoo out of accompanying him, reminding him that Barton was simply too dangerous an adversary to let him allow his friend to risk his life too. "I'll need you here to call in reinforcements," he had said, "because now that Barton has committed a crime with his kidnapping of Leslie, it's time to bring the authorities into this. But I want you to wait until you hear from me."

Tattoo had sighed deeply and finally acquiesced. "All right, boss, all right…but you better make sure you get yourself and Leslie back safe."

Now, having followed the trail Barton had spent hours setting up—unquestionably instead of, or at least after he'd finished, hunting for the nonexistent bomb Roarke had tried to distract him with the previous day—Roarke was climbing the hillside, scanning every inch of vegetation for clues. When he spotted a broken palm frond, he made a mental note of it and began to minutely watch the ground. Sure enough, he stopped just short of contacting a thin white line across the ground and knelt down to examine it. _Ingenious, Mr. Barton—a tripwire for a land mine. All right, two can play that game. _ He pulled open the pouch he carried over one shoulder and removed a ball of string, unwinding a few inches of it. Carefully he tied the end in a loose loop around the wire, then rose and gingerly stepped over it, making sure both feet were well clear of the wire as he moved. Then he crept along the path, unspooling string as he did so.

For a good half hour Barton paced the edge of the hillside, staring out over the treetops. Leslie, having given up on trying to loosen the ropes, found herself scanning the countryside as well. It was deceptively peaceful; she could hear all the usual noises created by life in the jungle, and the sky was clear, sunlight drenching everything in a cheerful glow. So when the explosion came, it startled both of them. Leslie sat up and gasped in horror, her stomach taking a sickening dive. When Barton turned around and aimed his feral smile at her, she actually felt the nausea rise in her throat.

"So much for your Mr. Roarke," he said with malicious triumph. Leslie swallowed back the bile as tears distorted her vision; she could no longer meet the man's gaze.

Down in the trees, Roarke gave Barton time to think he had won, studying the collection of strings in his hand. Each of the eight cotton threads had been tied to a different tripwire; one now hung limp, having served its purpose. He glanced up the hillside after a few seconds, then deliberately tugged on a second string. Another explosion went off.

Barton, shocked, whipped around to gawk at the rising flames and smoke from this new detonation. Leslie lifted her head, tears still in her eyes, and blinked them away just in time to see a tree topple over with a creak and a thud. Had an animal accidentally caused that one, or could it have been…? She closed her eyes and held her breath, hoping and trying not to hope all at the same time.

A third boom sounded and then a fourth, hard on its heels. Leslie's eyes flew open and she let the hope have its way. No animal could be responsible for all that! Barton gaped incredulously over the landscape, disbelief and frustration rapidly increasing. Two more land mines blew up, and then yet two more; Leslie actually giggled even through her shakiness from her instinctive fear of loud noises, thrilled to realize her guardian must have foiled Barton once again.

Barton clearly reached this conclusion too. New fear filled Leslie when he picked up his shotgun and began firing madly into the jungle below. "Where are you?" he yelled, his voice rasping with the fury of being outmaneuvered over and over again.

Just then Leslie saw her guardian push aside a fern and step into the clearing; she lit up with joy and relief. Barton shouted, "Where are you, Roarke??"

"Here, Mr. Barton," Roarke replied deliberately. Barton cranked around and started to raise his gun; Leslie had no time for a warning. Roarke wasted no time either, lunging forward and socking the man heavily in the gut. Barton doubled over in agony and dropped his rifle, and Roarke took swift advantage and landed another hard blow between his shoulder blades, felling him. He lifted his head and glared at Roarke.

"It's all over, Mr. Barton," Roarke said quietly.

Barton's gaze shifted and he half crawled to the nearby detonator. "Look out!" was all Leslie could scream before trying to shield herself with her tied-together hands, certain they were seconds from death. She heard Barton shove the plunger down, but silence reigned; it was as if even the nearby wildlife had stopped chattering. She peered cautiously over one thumb to see Roarke gazing down at Barton with pity.

Barton crouched there, glaring back, his hair falling into his eyes and his clothing askew; finally he rasped, "You had to break the rules. You used your special powers."

Roarke shook his head a little. "No, Mr. Barton," he said, lifting one hand. "I beat you with a pair of scissors. Yes, I cut the wire to your dynamite charge under this hill."

Barton lurched to his feet and stumbled toward the hillside. "No! It's not fair!" he cried, leaping off the edge and scrambling around in a desperate search for his severed wire. "It's not fair!" He ran around a tree in his way and suddenly tripped and fell over something. Roarke could see what happened, but all Leslie got was the man's outraged yells and the sound of a rope whipping through the air before a huge net, containing a hopelessly trapped Frank Barton, drifted into sight above the hilltop, looking oddly like the sun coming up in the morning. The tree Barton had dodged slowly straightened itself, lifting his trap as it did so, so that Barton was at least ten feet off the ground.

Roarke proceeded to ignore the spectacle and Barton's enraged yells, kneeling beside Leslie and pulling out a knife with which he sawed through her bonds. "Are you all right, Leslie? Did he harm you in any way?"

"No," she said, shaking her chafed wrists as the rope fell away. "No, he just really scared me. I'm okay, Mr. Roarke."

"Good," he replied wholeheartedly, tugging the knife neatly through the bonds on her ankles and helping her stand. "It seems to me you held up very well throughout this ordeal. Didn't I once tell you?…you're stronger than you think you are, and you've proven it again."

"Oh, I don't know about that," she muttered, glancing back at Barton, still flailing ineffectually in his own snare. "Every time you set off one of his land mines, it startled the heck out of me. I really hate sudden loud noises, didn't you know that? I don't even like thunderstorms."

"Indeed!" Roarke said through a laugh. "Well, perhaps one day we can find a way to cure you of that. In the meantime, why don't we go down to the Enclave and ask one of our winter residents if we can use his telephone. We will need to get word to Tattoo that both you and I are safe and sound, and have him send the police over here to pick up our guest."

"Amen to that," Leslie said emphatically and hugged him. "Thank you for coming for me, Mr. Roarke."

"You need hardly thank me for that," he told her. "It's all a part of keeping you safe and happy and well. I brought a rover here, so why don't you drive the jeep Mr. Barton brought you here in, and we'll make the call to Tattoo and bring the vehicles home." Willingly Leslie loaded the sleeping bag into the back of the jeep and climbed into the driver's seat with Roarke settling in beside her, and as she started the engine, Frank Barton's enraged roars rose over the noise of the motor. Leslie stuck her hand out the window and impishly waved at him, making Roarke burst out laughing as she pulled out of the clearing.


	11. Chapter 11

§ § § -- March 8, 1982

They watched two plainclothes policemen escort Frank Barton onto the dock; for a moment the man turned to stare at the three of them with something akin to angry hopelessness in his eyes. Tattoo looked at Roarke and remarked, "Mr. Barton's fantasy didn't turn out happily."

"Boy, there's an understatement for you," Leslie remarked.

Roarke smiled faintly and said, "Perhaps it will in the long run, Tattoo. He will now be where he should have been for a long time—under a doctor's care."

"Why did you grant him his fantasy?" Tattoo demanded, voicing Leslie's thoughts as well. "You could have been killed!"

"If I didn't, his sick mind would have driven him to seek prey somewhere else," Roarke explained. "Do you understand?"

Leslie and Tattoo both nodded in realization. "You know, Mr. Roarke, I'm really glad you're on our side," Leslie remarked, and Tattoo nodded vigorous agreement. Roarke smiled; then a car pulled up with Jack Hecker and Suzi Swann.

"Thank you, Mr. Roarke," Suzi said, "from both of us."

"Oh, then the fashion show was a success, from your point of view?" Roarke asked.

Hecker smiled. "I've had a dozen offers to create a new line of designer dresses, which we will begin to think about right after our honeymoon." He squeezed a radiant Suzi.

Suddenly Tattoo held out a box of gumdrops and said playfully, "Miss Swann, I have a going-away present for you…just in case."

Suzi grinned. "Aw…thanks, Tattoo, but no thanks. I like things just the way they are." Laughing, they all made their farewells; then Tattoo turned to Roarke again.

"Boss, what about her fantasy?" he questioned curiously. "After all, she didn't fall out of love with him."

"Ah, that is a question of interpretation, Tattoo. Miss Swann did fall out of love with the Jack Hecker she used to know," Roarke said, taking the box of gumdrops from him, "but at the same time, she fell in love with the new Mr. Hecker, who appreciates her for the loving, desirable woman that she is." As he spoke, he opened the box and extracted a piece of candy, popping it into his mouth once he had finished talking. Leslie watched him all the while, then bit her lip when she saw his chewing slow as if in contemplation.

He shot her a sudden glare, then directed it at Tattoo and said, "I don't like you." Tattoo drew back in shock, while Roarke peered at Leslie and shook his head. "You either!"

"Hey!" she protested, stunned. "Tattoo, where'd you get those awful things?"

"I didn't actually think they were _those_ gumdrops!" exclaimed Tattoo. Roarke, still glaring narrowly at them both, made a face of sheer contempt and tipped forward toward them for a moment as if in threat. "Oh, boss!"

All of a sudden Roarke lost his composure and began to snicker, and Tattoo and Leslie sagged in relief before looking at each other and laughing at themselves as much as at him. Tattoo shook a playfully scolding finger at him, and Roarke reached out to pat his shoulder and squeeze Leslie's, still laughing.

§ § § -- July 4, 2006

Christian could only shake his head when they'd finished. _"Herregud_, my Rose, you seemed to have a knack for getting into trouble in those days."

"Hey, it's not like it was my fault," Leslie protested, playfully bopping him on one thigh. "Listen, just for you, here's one that was really a lot of fun for me. Okay, folks, do you remember a 70s rock star by the name of Jimmy Jordan?"

"Wasn't he one of those glam rockers or something? The kind that should have gone out with Kiss and Alice Cooper when that era ended?" Julie asked.

"He was very popular in Europe," Christian said thoughtfully. "Late 70s, early 80s…he was one of those oddball types of rock musicians that Roald would have been interested in had he been old enough at the time. I seem to remember Gerhard having bought a record or two of his. My brothers and sister couldn't understand his appeal, my parents paid no attention at all, and I myself had different tastes."

"Didn't he disappear late in 1982?" Rogan asked.

"Indeed he did," Roarke said, "and when he did, he came here. And this is why."

§ § § -- October 30, 1982

The band that year consisted of the usual four musicians, plus this time a crop of six lively dancing women to add some interest. Leslie didn't mind the new tunes that Roarke incorporated every fall—although she felt that this year's was more suited to a Caribbean island than a South Pacific Polynesian stronghold—but she still wasn't sure about the dancers. She watched them leaping, twirling and trailing brightly colored silk banners in the air around them until Tattoo's question, "Who is she, boss?" diverted her attention. A somewhat plain-looking woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a nondescript blue dress and with her brown hair haloing her head in a riot of untamed curls, was on her way down the landing ramp.

"Miss Andrea Barclay, from St. Louis, Missouri," said Roarke. "She's come to Fantasy Island hoping to begin a long and illustrious career in musicals."

"Oh, is she an actress?" Tattoo queried.

"She not only acts, she also dances and sings, too," Roarke said.

"Then what's the problem?"

"She's never really been able to perform on stage, Tattoo." As Andrea Barclay stepped onto the grass with her drink, Leslie now saw that her first impression had been mistaken; she was actually quite pretty, though her hairstyle didn't suit her at all in Leslie's opinion. If truth be told, Leslie thought she bore a strong resemblance to Nyah, the pesky mermaid princess. Roarke continued: "You see, Miss Barclay suffers from a paralyzing case of stage fright. It's so bad that she's on the brink of giving up her dream entirely. So this weekend will either make or break a promising career that has not yet even begun."

"You mean we hold the power to decide whether she becomes a star?" Leslie asked, amazed. "Boy, that could be a really heady thing."

Roarke just grinned and turned back to the plane dock as a shortish man dressed in a trench coat and hat, wearing sunglasses and a nicely trimmed beard and mustache, stepped out of the hatch. He glanced furtively back and forth once or twice as he started along the dock, trying to hunch over and hide his face inside his coat lapels. "That guy looks kind of jumpy," Tattoo noted.

"He has reason to be jumpy, Tattoo," Roarke said gravely. "His name is—" He caught himself, looked around to be sure nobody was within earshot, then leaned down so that Tattoo and Leslie could hear him and said softly, "Jimmy Jordan."

Leslie's eyes nearly sprang from her head; Tattoo registered shocked excitement. "Jimmy Jor—" he blurted aloud, cut off only by Roarke's hand over his mouth. Blinking, he peered up at Roarke and all but whispered, "Jimmy Jordan!? The famous rock singer who got killed in a car accident?"

"Well, that's what he wants everyone to think," Roarke explained, voice still low. "You see, while giving a concert in Las Vegas two nights ago, he inadvertently witnessed a gangland execution." Tattoo turned to stare at him in alarm; Leslie, who had thought her eyes couldn't get any wider, discovered she had been wrong. Roarke nodded. "The man he saw holding the gun is the most powerful figure in the world of organized crime—a man who will stop at nothing to make sure that—" He lowered his voice still more. "—Jimmy Jordan doesn't live to testify against him."

"You mean he's running from the mob?" Leslie asked.

Roarke nodded again. "I'm afraid so, yes."

"Does he have a fantasy?" Tattoo put in.

Roarke stared at him in disbelief; Leslie began to giggle at the exasperated look on her guardian's face. "Isn't it obvious, Tattoo?" he asked incredulously, and elaborated when the Frenchman shook his head: "The man wants to stay alive!" On Tattoo's expression of understanding, Roarke straightened up, barely in time to meet the girl who brought him his drink on a silver tray. "Does he have a fantasy," he muttered disgustedly, and Tattoo shrugged, then shot Leslie a quelling look as Roarke raised his glass and called out, "My dear guests! I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"

Andrea Barclay smiled and raised her glass in return; Jimmy Jordan barely nodded, looked around behind him and tried to hide behind his drink. Roarke threw Tattoo one last glance, and Tattoo executed one more shrug, which just renewed Leslie's laughter.

‡ ‡ ‡

They arrived at the theater in Amberville and made their way backstage; the whole building was empty at the moment—or so they thought, till they heard a voice beginning to sing softly, gaining volume and confidence. The song was an old one: _"They say that falling in love is wonderful…"_

Roarke smiled and led Tattoo and Leslie into the wings, where Andrea Barclay stood singing to an imaginary audience. Andrea began the next line and slowly pivoted, only to see the three of them standing there; she cut herself off abruptly and blinked. Roarke urged encouragingly, "Oh, please, go on, Miss Barclay."

"Yes, it was beautiful," Tattoo agreed, and Leslie nodded.

Andrea looked frustrated. "I _can't_ continue! That's my problem. When I'm alone, I'm great—I think…" Her hosts glanced at one another in gentle amusement. "But the moment I see people out there, watching me, I just…I fall apart." She cast them a pleading look.

"Maybe the problem is, you're trying too hard," suggested Tattoo, going out onto the stage to address Andrea directly.

"Well, I just get so…s—nervous and self-conscious whenever I get on stage. What am I to do?" Her voice was soft and hopeless.

Tattoo smiled and suggested brightly, "Trust the boss. He's the only one who can make your fantasy come true."

"And he's really good at it, too," Leslie put in loyally.

Andrea glanced at her with dawning hope, then at Roarke. "Can you, Mr. Roarke? Can you make it come true?"

"Oh yes." Roarke strolled onto the stage with Leslie behind him. "Yes, I can provide the opportunity for you to conquer your shyness and prove yourself on the stage if _you_ would try very hard to have faith in yourself."

"I will, Mr. Roarke." Andrea grinned a little with determination. "You just give me the toughest audience you can find."

Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie looked at one another in surprise. "The…toughest…audience I can find?" Roarke echoed slowly, looking amazed and stymied at the same time. Then he slowly brightened, as if an idea had just occurred to him. "Yes…Tattoo, the lights, please." Tattoo acceded and headed for the control box just offstage.

"You might be sorry you said that, Miss Barclay," Leslie said teasingly. Andrea, who had been watching Tattoo go, blinked and threw her a suddenly intimidated look.

Roarke approached her. "Now, Miss Barclay…imagine that you are already the famous actress you want to be. Feel the confidence flowing from you." His voice was slow and mesmerizing, seeming to trap the young actress under a spell.

Just as he was beginning to raise his hands, Tattoo called out eagerly, "Now, boss?"

Leslie jumped, startled, and Roarke hastily shushed him with some impatience before the spell was completely broken. He resumed his former actions, raising his hands a little higher, then paused as if waiting. When nothing happened, he glanced at Tattoo long enough to mouth, _"Now!"_ Tattoo nodded and began to slowly lower the lights.

The stage darkened except for a pool of soft light on Andrea; Leslie saw Roarke raise his hands once more in the reflected illumination, and an inexplicable breeze sprang up, blowing Andrea's curls to one side. The light turned deep blue, then vanished altogether, plunging the stage into total darkness.

There was a long pause; then Roarke called out, "Lights." Nothing happened, and he sighed and clapped his hands sharply once. "Lights, Tattoo, please!"

"Oh…sorry, boss…" After a few seconds the lights came back up, revealing Roarke's exasperated expression and Andrea's absence. Leslie grinned at Tattoo's sheepish look.

"What's the matter with you this weekend, my friend? You seem to be missing the most obvious cues," Roarke said, shaking his head.

Tattoo shrugged. "I guess I'm a little distracted, boss. I'm sorry. I'll do better, I promise. Just give me another chance."

Roarke's brows popped up. "I was beginning to think I'd have to rely on Leslie to take your place this weekend. I'm relieved to see that you're ready to concentrate more on your job. Well, come along, you two, we're to meet…" He cleared his throat slightly. "…our other guest at the house, so we'd better hurry."

They arrived there just before Jimmy Jordan scurried in through the French shutters, still hunched into the coat and trying to shield his face under the hat. Leslie wasn't entirely sure his disguise was all that successful; he looked more like an inept spy, particularly with the large sunglasses he wore whose lenses were ringed with miniature rhinestones. The rocker stopped short behind the desk, took in his hosts' curious stares, and smiled a little sheepishly at them before glancing behind him and removing the glasses.

"The hat, too," Tattoo suggested gently.

"Right." Jimmy Jordan plucked the hat off his head and stuffed his sunglasses into his pocket, tucking the hat between his trench coat and his wrist. "I presume you know who I am and what happened…"

Roarke nodded and aimed a remote control at the television set that he'd had brought down from the spare room upstairs. It clicked on to a videotaped news report, showing a concert arena filled with screaming, cheering fans. The voiceover of a reporter kicked in: _"This film, shot at a concert last month in Denver, shows Jimmy Jordan at the height of his career—a career that ended tragically yesterday when his car plunged off a cliff and into the ocean near Point Dune, California." _ The scene shifted to a solemn-looking man with the perfectly shellacked hair universal to all news anchors. _"Jimmy Jordan, a man with an abundance of fame, fortune and talent, lived a life filled with applause; now he's lost."_

Roarke shut off the set, and Jimmy sighed wistfully. "Well…except for my business manager, you three are the only ones who know I'm alive." His gaze darted back and forth between Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie before he turned and headed toward the settee, beginning to remove the coat. "It's got to stay that way, too. Oh, Lordy, why me?" He dropped the coat onto the settee, and both Tattoo and Leslie stared at him in amazement; he was still wearing a concert costume that reminded Leslie of the ones Elvis might have worn in his last few years performing in Las Vegas, with more rhinestones twinkling in the room's light, a belt that had to be a foot wide, and the eagle-appliquéd shirt open almost all the way to the belt buckle. "Why did I have to witness a murder?"

He seemed unaware of Tattoo's and Leslie's exchanged glances of amazement; even Roarke seemed a little taken aback by Jimmy's choice of attire. They all looked at each other but didn't bother to comment; finally Jimmy saw their expressions and mumbled, "I was between sets when I observed the killing. I've been so busy running for my life, I haven't had a chance to change clothes."

Roarke nodded with his accustomed aplomb. "Naturally. Uh…did you tell the police what you saw?" he asked, taking a chair nearby.

"Yeah, I called 'em right away. Didn't tell 'em where I was, but I called 'em. Naturally, they want me to testify; they offered me police protection, too." He hesitated, then said, "When I asked 'em, 'What about after I testify?', they said they can't guarantee anything."

"Huh," commented Tattoo, disgusted. "That's terrific."

"So I hung up the telephone, without telling them who I was, drove my car out to Point Dune, put it in gear and sent it…" He made a gesture, then said resignedly, "Over the cliff. Goodbye, Jimmy Jordan." And he flopped tiredly into a chair. "Goodbye…"

"And the mob would think you're out of the way," Tattoo filled in.

"Exactly," Jimmy said with a nod. "Only, my business manager, who knows everything, told me there are two hoods looking for me to make sure I'm really dead. One of 'em is a missing-persons expert, the other one's an assassin." Leslie drew in a slow breath and watched Jimmy get abruptly to his feet and approach Roarke. "You don't think that, uh, they could trace me to Fantasy Island, do you, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke looked a little sorrowful and inquired, "How good are you at handling bad news, Mr. Jordan?" Jimmy's expression sharpened and he stared questions at Roarke, who pointed a quick finger toward the open French shutters. They all looked around to see two men weaving their way through the foliage in the direction of the terrace. Fortunately for the startled occupants of the study, the two didn't bother looking inside but veered down a trail to their left.

Jimmy sprang into action and hid against the back wall, out of plain sight. "Is that them?" he gasped. Roarke nodded, and Tattoo promptly ducked aside to join Jimmy in hiding, as if he too were an avidly sought witness. Leslie looked at Roarke as Jimmy cried, "What'm I gonna do?"

Roarke arose and went to him, placing the remote on his desk. "I believe a new identity is in order…which means we'll have to do something about his appearance, Tattoo. Ah…yes." His handsome features lit with an idea, and Jimmy watched him apprehensively. "Yes, indeed." Even Tattoo looked puzzled.

"What're you gonna do, Mr. Roarke?" Leslie asked.

Roarke winked at her. "Tell me, Leslie, who do your friends tell you is the best hairstylist in town?"


	12. Chapter 12

§ § § -- October 30, 1982

That was how, a scant hour later, Jimmy Jordan found himself inhabiting what seemed to be a persona completely alien to him. His beard and mustache had been shaved away, and his wild, shoulder-length, honey-colored hair cut and trimmed into an everyman's business haircut. He now wore a suit and tie and highly polished shoes. Jimmy peered at himself curiously as he, Roarke and Leslie stood in front of the door to one of the mansions in the Enclave. "A little conservative, isn't it?" Jimmy said doubtfully. "Overly clean." Leslie just shrugged, and Jimmy seemed to resign himself, turning to her guardian. "What exactly am I supposed to be, Mr. Roarke?"

Just then the door opened to reveal a woman clad in an expensive but casual dress. "Mr. Roarke, hello." She shook hands with him, then spotted Jimmy. "You found someone!"

"Yes," Roarke said, "I believe I have. May I present…your new butler."

"Hello," the woman said, and Jimmy stuck out his hand before Roarke's words sank in. He hesitated, a dubious look on his face, and eyed Roarke, who stifled a smile. Realizing he was in too tight a spot to protest, Jimmy responded with a strained smile and tried to pull himself together.

"Well, then, come on in," the woman said and focused on Leslie. "Oh, by the way, the girls are here, if you'd like to go up and visit for a while."

Leslie deferred to Roarke, who said thoughtfully, "Yes, why not? When you're ready to come home, Leslie, just call." She nodded as the woman ushered Jimmy inside, and Leslie followed, meeting the rock star's gaze for a moment.

"Is he leaving you here to…keep an eye on me or something?" Jimmy whispered.

"Maybe just to make sure you're settled in okay," she said with an apologetic little smile, taking care not to use his name. "But I think you'll probably be fine."

"Thanks a lot," Jimmy grunted, and Leslie grinned and excused herself, heading up the stairs. One of the girls who lived here was a classmate of hers at Fantasy Island High, and while they weren't close friends, both she and Roarke had seen the opportunity inherent in the situation. It almost felt like playing on the job, and she welcomed the chance.

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke and Tattoo were busy playing cards in a Wild West saloon of the late nineteenth century when a very outraged Andrea Barclay marched over to them. Roarke stood up, and Tattoo welcomed her with, "Oh, Miss Barclay…we were waiting for your entrance."

"Well, you can deal me out," Andrea said indignantly and shot Roarke a look. "Mr. Roarke, I've been hiking for five miles to get here, and I…" She let out an affronted huff. "I don't even know where 'here' is!"

"You are in Langtry, Texas, Miss Barclay, and this is the Jersey Lilly Saloon," he informed her obligingly, smiling.

"Well, I…I was expecting Broadway, or Hollywood," Andrea began, but was rudely interrupted when a patron at the next table sprang from his chair and angrily overturned the table and everything on it. Startled, Andrea recoiled; Tattoo watched with interest, and Roarke counted his cards as if nothing were happening, while a good old-fashioned bar fight got under its merry way.

"You did request the toughest audience I could find," Roarke reminded her.

"Yes, but I meant critics, not barroom brawlers!" Andrea protested in disgust.

"Nevertheless, there's your stage, and this is your chance to prove that you can perform in front of a tough audience, when you go audition for shows such as _Annie Get Your Gun."_ Roarke gestured behind Andrea as he spoke, while she squirmed every which way in her chair, trying to keep an eye on the brawlers to avoid being hit.

Tattoo added earnestly, but with a twinkle in his eye, "If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere." He winced at a particularly loud crash of bodies against the floor.

"You can say that again," Andrea grumbled. Roarke spread his hands and smiled, then gestured once more at the stage. Resigned, she got up and headed that way, managing somehow to steer clear of the ongoing ruckus. Climbing up in front of the closed curtain, she opened her mouth, took a breath and began hesitantly singing, _"Oh my darling…" _ A couple of guys at the table right in front of her looked up, but the fight continued, and she cleared her throat, raising her voice just a little. _"Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling Clementine…thou art lost and gone forever…"_ Her voice trailed off as Roarke and Tattoo saw an annoyed gray-haired man half-run across the room to confront her.

"Young lady, I'm gonna have to ask you to step down from there now," he said sternly, his gray eyes snapping.

Andrea stared worriedly at him in the sudden silence. "Was I that bad?"

"I said now!" the man repeated loudly, grabbing her arm and yanking her off the stage altogether. He pulled her a safe distance away from the stage, then turned to her and, with the entire crowd looking on, continued: "Now you're new in town, so I'm gonna give you a little piece of advice."

Andrea tried to defend herself: "Well, Mr. Roarke said…"

But that was the last either Roarke or Tattoo heard of her voice as they stepped through the time-travel-room door into the study; her words came as if through a long, echoing tunnel. Tattoo peered up at Roarke as the latter closed the door. "Boss, are you sure she's gonna be all right? I mean, maybe you gave her a tougher audience than she can handle."

"It's what she asked for, my friend," Roarke said with a broad smile. "And believe me, if she can learn to handle that audience, she will be able to handle anything—to paraphrase your admirable quotation a few minutes ago."

"Or about a hundred years ago," Tattoo bantered, and Roarke laughed and nodded.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie had been listening to records and tapes with Taylor Buchanan, almost eighteen, whom she had met a few weeks before in school, and her fifteen-year-old sister Cassie for some time when a voice yelled from downstairs: "Taylor? Taylor!" The girls all looked at one another; Taylor rolled her blue eyes before training them on Leslie.

"Want to come with me?" she inquired, tugging at the pale-pink headband that held back her chin-length dark-blonde curls.

"Sure, why not?" Leslie agreed with a shrug. She didn't know Taylor all that well, but she did know that Taylor's parents were dead and that she was living with her sisters. The two girls trotted down together, Taylor clearly with an attitude, Leslie slightly uneasy.

The young woman who had greeted her at the door—Taylor's older sister, Michelle, aged twenty-three—held up a black-and-white photo with a heavy marking on it; as the girls approached, Leslie realized that someone had drawn a couple of thick, curly lines on the upper lip of the woman in the picture. "Taylor, are you responsible for this?" she asked.

Taylor grinned and replied saucily, "Just the mustache."

"Taylor!" Michelle exclaimed, clearly hurt.

"Gimme a break, Michelle," Taylor said indignantly. "Two minutes after Father died, she and half her estate were out the door. You hate her just as much as I do."

"That's not the point," Michelle retorted. Leslie heard footsteps and turned to see Cassie pausing in the doorway to watch curiously. Nearby stood Jimmy Jordan, helpless witness to the entire scene. Michelle went on, "What if someone at the party tomorrow had seen this? What would they think?"

"Don't worry," Taylor assured her sarcastically, "I'll be a good little sister and erase it before your fiancé and his parents come."

"Who's this guy?" Cassie asked at that point.

Michelle tried to calm herself down. "Cassie, Taylor, this is our new butler, Mr. …" She hesitated, looked at Jimmy expectantly.

Jimmy glanced at Leslie, who raised her eyebrows at him. He peered at the ceiling for a second, then offered, "Godfrey."

Cassie was scrutinizing him carefully. "Where've I seen you before?"

"You can ask silly questions later," Michelle cut her off. "Right now I want both of you to go shopping." Having delivered this surprising order, she marched past them toward the doorway. "Sorry about that, Leslie. Come on, Godfrey, I want to show you the rest of the house, then you can drive them."

Jimmy headed away after her, saying, "Ladies," as he went. The three girls stood and watched him vanish into a room across the large entry hall.

"He's kinda cute," Taylor remarked. "I think I'll have an affair with him."

"Taylor," Cassie said, looking disgusted.

"An affair?" Leslie repeated in disbelief.

Taylor looked superior. "It's very chic to become sexually involved with your butler nowadays. If you would watch the soaps, you would know that." She shifted her scornful look from Cassie to Leslie, who scowled and rolled her eyes before following the sisters' gazes after the departed Jimmy Jordan. With Cassie's and Taylor's attention on Jimmy, Leslie had a chance to shake her head and wonder to herself why she bothered to try to be friends with Taylor, who was too rich and acted too sophisticated for her taste, and how soon it would be before Cassie managed to figure out who the new butler was.

Sure enough, Cassie remarked, "I just wanna know why he looks so familiar." Leslie sealed her lips together, determined to play dumb as long as she could get away with it.

To that end, she found herself pretty much forced to agree when Jimmy returned from his tour and offered to take the girls into town. It would at least provide her with a ride home; it was a long walk from the Enclave to the main house, and the shuttle bus came only twice an hour. She followed Jimmy, Taylor and Cassie out to a waiting limo and willingly settled herself into one of the plush seats, determined to enjoy this. _After all,_ she reasoned, _it might be the only time in my life I ever get to ride in one of these things…_

The shopping expedition itself was fairly boring, only because Leslie didn't have any cash on her with which to buy anything. As disdainful as she was of the self-important rich, she had been trying to give Taylor the benefit of the doubt; Taylor, due to her attitude, wasn't very popular with most of the kids at school and was very much an outsider. Even Leslie's friends had wondered why she'd bothered talking to Taylor; but in fact, Leslie could remember feeling very out of place on her first day at school on the island, and she was still grateful to her friends for easing her way. She had hoped to pass on the favor, although there were occasions when she was convinced Taylor failed to appreciate her gesture. Still, they had become familiar enough with each other to tell each other their life stories; like Leslie, Taylor was an orphan, though she did have a stepmother who she claimed had disappeared with an enormous amount of the family's money as soon as the girls' father had died. Taylor was sometimes brassy, sometimes vulnerable; too often Leslie saw the brash side of the other girl, and at those times she found herself thinking her friends might be right.

Finally they headed for the pond restaurant, where Cassie decided she wanted to have an ice-cream sundae and Taylor decided to see if she could get away with ordering a mixed drink. As it happened, the bartender firmly nixed it, and Taylor took her seat at the girls' table sulking a little, with a nonalcoholic version of a piña colada, identical to Leslie's, in one hand.

They were about halfway through their refreshments when a dark-haired young man at the bar arose and approached them, ignoring Leslie and Cassie entirely and focusing on Taylor, who had deliberately dressed and made up to look older than her actual seventeen years. "Hey there, ho there, hi there," he sang out, snapping his fingers and slapping his fists together in what he must have thought was a smooth gesture. The girls stared at him, all with dubious looks on their faces.

"Are you talking to me?" Taylor asked coolly.

"Oh, I think I just found the best-looking girl in the place," the guy said. Leslie and Cassie exchanged glances; it was plain he thought he was something special, and he was quite handsome, but his method left a great deal to be desired.

"Oh, I'm really very flattered," Taylor purred, injecting a vein of sarcasm into her tone, "but I didn't come here to get picked up."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, I just wanna talk a little, that's all," the would-be stud protested with a little smile. "C'mon now, be nice."

"She _is_ being nice," Cassie spoke up, eyeing the guy with contempt. "I would've told you to butt out the first time you opened your mouth." Leslie blinked and tried not to laugh aloud; the situation was over her head and beyond her experience, and she emphatically did not want to get caught up in it. That didn't mean, however, that she was against playing spectator to the impending three-ring circus.

The young stud took a moment to recover, carefully erased the look of consternation from his face, and regarded the two sisters with indignation. "You know, you two make one hell of a couple. You sit there and feed your face—" This made Cassie freeze in the midst of a bite and stare at him. "—and Miss High-and-Mighty here sits and feeds her ego." He fielded their cold looks, then made a huffing sound and started to leave—only to have Taylor neatly stick out her foot and trip him as he moved behind her chair. He smashed to the floor, clipping a tray of drinks being carried by a native waitress on his way down. The other patrons laughed at the sight, and Leslie and Cassie, who had stood up sharply at the stud's impact, giggled at each other while Taylor gazed at the ceiling and looked pleased with herself.

The stud scrambled to his feet and snarled at Taylor, "You did that on purpose! I oughta knock your—"

"Go ahead," Cassie challenged loudly, laughing. "She's a black belt. C'mon, Taylor, show him your stuff."

The stud's eyes widened with outrage and he stepped forward; Taylor stood up to meet the challenge, and that was when Jimmy Jordan, who had been standing discreetly in the shadows keeping an eye on the girls, burst out of hiding. "Whoa, whoa, wait a minute," he blurted. "Just—just hold everything. If these people wanted violence, they'd be home watching the news, right?" he inquired affably.

The stud stared at him, and Jimmy, waiting for a response, glanced behind the other man. Leslie followed his gaze and saw two men at the bar staring openly at him—the same two men she, Roarke, Tattoo and Jimmy had seen from the study that morning. Without taking his eyes from them, Jimmy ordered, "Cassie, Taylor, get your things, we're going home. You too, Leslie, I'll drop you off at Mr. Roarke's."

"Oh, Godfrey," Cassie wailed in protest.

"Cassie," Jimmy said warningly, "get in the car." Sulking, Cassie began scraping her belongings together; Leslie quietly pushed her chair back under the table, more than glad to get out of the restaurant by now and even happier to be on her way home.

Taylor sidled up behind Jimmy and murmured to him, "That masterful tone of voice you're using really turns me on." She smirked at the young stud, then turned to follow Leslie and Cassie up the stairs toward the entrance.

The three girls paused at the top to wait for Jimmy, who peered up at the stud, a good foot taller than he and looking ready to cave some skulls in, particularly Taylor's. "Have a nice day," Jimmy offered with an ingratiating little smile, reached up to flick an invisible particle off the badly soiled lapels of the stud's baby-blue sport jacket, then came up the steps and herded the girls out. Leslie tried to let Cassie and Taylor pull out ahead, but Cassie was laughing again and making fun of the stud, playing to an audience.

At the main house Leslie wished Cassie and Taylor a good night and got out of the car, hesitating beside the driver's window where Jimmy was about to shift gears preparatory to departing. "Are you gonna be all right?" she asked low, leaning over in an attempt to prevent Taylor and Cassie from overhearing her.

"There's probably security at their house, isn't there? I mean, all that money," Jimmy said, with more hope than conviction. "Too many priceless and valuable things. If I stay put in whatever room they give me, I oughta be all right."

Leslie sighed. "I sure hope so," she said. "I'll tell Mr. Roarke what happened, anyway. See you tomorrow." Jimmy smiled wanly at her, and she stepped back and watched the limo retreat up the lane toward the Ring Road.

She hurried into the house just as Roarke and Tattoo were preparing to go out to the veranda for a late supper. "Ah, Leslie…would you care to join us?" Roarke inquired, with just a trace of dryness in his tone.

She cleared her throat, embarrassed. "Oh, well, you know how Taylor is, Mr. Roarke," she said. "She and Cassie insisted on having something to drink at the pond restaurant after a shopping excursion their sister Michelle told them to go on. Ji—I mean, Mr. Godfrey just dropped me off."

"Mr. Godfrey?" Tattoo said blankly.

"Our guest's cover name," said Leslie. "He came up with it on the spur of the moment. Anyway, Mr. Roarke…while we were there, some guy tried to pick up Taylor, and she cut him down, and there was a big scene that, uh, Godfrey had to stop. And you remember those two guys we saw out behind the terrace this morning? Well, they were sitting at the bar and saw the whole thing."

Roarke frowned. "Where is Mr. Godfrey now?" he asked.

"He took Taylor and Cassie home. He told me that if he stays in his room for the night, he should be okay. They do have an alarm on that house, I'm sure…that's what he said. If someone tries to break in, I'm sure they'd know it. Besides, according to Cassie, Taylor's a black belt. She could probably easily do away with anyone trying to get in."

Roarke shook his head. "Very well, Leslie, we'll let it drop for now. Though there are times when I don't think it wise for you to spend much time with Taylor."

Leslie smiled wryly. "Believe me, Mr. Roarke, sometimes Taylor scares me too. I feel like I have more in common with Cassie, even though she's two years younger. And speaking of Cassie…I think she suspects who their new butler really is."

"As if being hunted down wasn't enough," Tattoo snorted, "now this kid's out to reveal his identity. Maybe you should have placed him with someone else over there, boss. Like maybe that British family that comes to the island and stays in their house here about once every ten years, in months with two full moons." Leslie rolled her eyes; she knew he meant the Lightwood-Wynton family, with whose son Simon she had had a disastrous nine days during the summer just past.

"That's too often for me," she said disgustedly. "Let's go eat, I'm starving." Roarke chuckled and led the way onto the porch.


	13. Chapter 13

§ § § -- October 31, 1982

"So what about this party?" Tattoo asked as they were coasting down the Ring Road in a rover around eleven.

Leslie had sat up in the middle seat so that Tattoo and Roarke could hear. "From what Cassie and Taylor say, it's so Michelle can announce her engagement. I guess they think the guy's really stuffy and snobbish, but he has a lot of money."

Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other, both with surprise. "So the young lady is marrying for money, then," Roarke mused.

"That's what Taylor and Cassie think. Funny, I'm not really so sure. I can see why she would, but Michelle doesn't seem so much like the type to me. She's a lot less brassy than Taylor. Even less than Cassie actually. She tries to look happy when she mentions the engagement, but I can tell her heart isn't in it, so I think she _is_ marrying him for money."

"I thought they wanted to leave," Tattoo remarked. "I remember when you met Taylor, you said she complained all the time about how boring this island is and how she wanted to go home."

"They couldn't. Well, at least not right now. Cassie said Michelle's fiancé wanted to have the engagement party and the wedding here on the island, and they might as well go ahead and open their house here in order to do that, even if Michelle had to put it up for sale after. But this wedding is designed to prevent that. Anyway, I think Cassie likes it here. I don't exactly know about Taylor, but at least she's stopped complaining and wishing she were back in New York City all the time."

"Why do you suppose they left in the first place?" asked Tattoo.

"Probably a lot of gossip," Leslie said, wrinkling her nose.

"Undoubtedly," Roarke agreed, pulling into the Enclave's access road, which was lined with cars on both sides. "It appears that many of the guests have already arrived. Why don't we check in with the, uh, butler, and find out how things are going so far."

No one was at the front door, though, and they let themselves in and made their way through the formal living room to the patio at the side of the house, where the party was already under way. They found Jimmy Jordan out there circulating with a tray of drinks, making sure the catered buffet was well-stocked (which Leslie knew it was, since it was Maureen's mother's company), and seeing to everyone's general well-being. The conversations were quiet, and Leslie thought the whole thing seemed too refined, even for a rich people's party.

Suddenly Michelle burst out of one of the patio doors, grabbed Jimmy's arm and towed him back inside; Leslie edged near the door to find out what the fuss was about, since Maureen wasn't here today for her to talk to. She was in time to hear Michelle exclaim, "You've got to do something—the piano player says he's leaving, and—"

"You haven't even played yet," Jimmy said, disgusted.

The man in question turned around then, and Leslie gasped; it was the same man who had tried to hit on Taylor back at the pond restaurant! Jimmy stared at him and blurted, "You're the piano player…"

"You got it, pal," the "stud" retorted coldly. "And you can bet I'm leaving." Cassie came in then to see what the trouble was, just as he pointed at a sulking Taylor standing in the corner and added, "If I'd known this 'lady' here was your sister, I'd've never come here in the first place." Michelle's eyes rolled around to Jimmy in abject pleading.

"He-he won't play until Taylor apologizes and Taylor won't apologize and the Winslows'll be here any minute and unless we have live music for the party the whole party will be a flop," she said in a breathless rush, her soft voice growing wobbly with impending tears as she wound up the run-on sentence. She stared at Jimmy as if expecting something; Jimmy floundered, and Michelle finally did begin to break down. "What's the use…everything's ruined," she moaned and collapsed onto the long white sofa, blotting at tears with a lacy handkerchief. "I never could do anything right…" Jimmy shot a meaningful look at the piano player, who merely rolled his eyes mockingly.

Cassie drew in a breath and volunteered, "I know who can play—and sing."

Michelle lifted her face and demanded incredulously, "For God's sake, who?"

"Godfrey!" Cassie said brightly.

Jimmy looked up and Leslie blinked from her post near the door. Michelle protested tearfully, "Oh, Cassie, this is no time for games!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Jimmy muttered nervously, adjusting his tie.

Cassie went to stand in front of him, a glare building in her eyes. "Look, you like Michelle—I know you do. You just gonna stand there and let her cry?"

"Cassie, you don't understand," Jimmy insisted under his breath.

But Cassie's face closed over. "I understand fine. You know, you really are a creep." She turned away from him, face filled with disillusionment.

Jimmy looked at Taylor, then at a softly crying Michelle, and finally at Cassie, before leaning over the back of the sofa and murmuring, "You know, I really do a wonderful Jimmy Jordan impression." Cassie lit up, and he winked at her and headed for the patio, giving Leslie another wink on his way out. She trailed him, followed by all three sisters and even the would-be piano player.

Sure enough, Jimmy launched into his own "impression of himself", playing and singing "I Got the Music in Me" for the surprised benefit of the partygoers. Tattoo stood beside the piano and Leslie behind him, watching Jimmy's fingers flying over the keys in his usual flamboyant style, so at odds with his new clean-cut appearance.

Then Cassie sidled up to the side of the piano and Tattoo turned to say something to her; Leslie followed his movement, and they both realized Cassie was holding a miniature cassette recorder in one hand, with the tape inside going. They looked at each other, and Tattoo shot Cassie a disapproving expression before returning his attention to Jimmy. Leslie edged around Tattoo and muttered to the younger girl, "What're you doing with that, anyway?" Cassie only smirked.

The piano player sauntered out and remarked, "Not bad…if you don't mind cheap imitations, you know what I mean? You better let me take over."

"Sure," Jimmy murmured without further ado, and stepped aside for the arrogant man. As he took his seat and Jimmy retreated to resume his butler duties, Michelle caught up with him.

"Thank you," she said.

Jimmy smiled up at her. "My pleasure," he said, and for a moment or two they stood looking shyly at each other, little smiles on their faces. After a moment he gestured vaguely over his shoulder and added, "Guess I better get back to work," and left.

Tattoo turned to Cassie then and asked the same question Leslie had failed to get an answer to. "What're you doing with that machine?"

This time Cassie leaned eagerly forward to explain. "I'm getting proof he's really Jimmy Jordan. Voices are as distinctive as fingerprints, Tattoo." She fielded their looks and said casually, "Oh, I learned that on _Hart to Hart."_ Tattoo nodded and looked back at Leslie, who stared after Cassie for a second or two and then rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"So where'd Mr. Roarke go?" she wanted to know.

"Said he was gonna check up on Miss Barclay," Tattoo replied. "He'll be back in a little while. Come on, you might as well have something to eat. I have to join him."

She started over to the buffet, and as Leslie reached for a plate she could have sworn she saw something moving in the bushes. But when she looked, nobody was there, and she dismissed the sighting as some sort of hunger-induced hallucination.

‡ ‡ ‡

Andrea was peering critically at a life-size cutout of Lillie Langtry when she heard Roarke's voice from the doorway. "Lillie Langtry was truly a great performer, wasn't she?"

"I don't know," Andrea said. "And I guess no one around here will, unless…" Her voice trailed off, and Roarke watched with interest; he had brought Leslie and Tattoo up to speed on this fantasy at breakfast that morning, explaining how Lillie Langtry had evidently stood up Judge Roy Bean—the man who had forcibly removed Andrea from the stage the day before—and then had appeared from nowhere in the midst of a song Andrea was singing for the judge, acting sweet but condescending. Worse, the woman had declined to sing for the judge and his little town, leaving Bean in a deep blue funk.

Before he could respond, Andrea started and gasped. "Mr. Roarke! Do you always sneak up on people like that?"

"I'm sorry if I startled you, Miss Barclay," Roarke apologized, advancing into the room with Tattoo at his side.

"Mr. Roarke, I'm glad you showed up. I…I'd like to make a deal with you."

"Deal?" he repeated curiously.

"I'll give up my fantasy if…if you'll help Roy?"

"Give up your fantasy?" Tattoo exclaimed. "But you've been dreaming about this for a long time! Like my boss says, you're very talented."

Andrea smiled at him. "Thank you, Tattoo. But if Lillie Langtry doesn't sing here tonight, Roy's name will be mud for the rest of history!"

Roarke said, "Well, you cannot be held responsible for Mr. Bean's boasting, Miss Barclay. Still, legend does say that Lillie Langtry sang here once. Hmm…I wonder how we could fulfill the legend, as well as your fantasy?…" He considered it a moment, then turned to her and Tattoo with a smile. "Tattoo."

Instantly Tattoo whipped a gun out of a holster beneath his jacket and thrust it at Andrea, who flinched back. "Here. This may give you an idea."

Andrea stared at Roarke, who gestured at the cutout of Lillie Langtry; and all of a sudden her face lit up. "Do you think I could substitute for her? If I had the right disguise?" She lifted the gun and examined it with a faintly revolted look while Roarke and Tattoo watched. "They can't be that far out of town yet. If I can stop them…well, if I can't talk her into singing for this town, then I'll just…I'll just improvise." She grinned. "Thanks for the idea, Tattoo." With that she scuttled out of the room, and Roarke and Tattoo watched her go, both grinning.

"Looks like she's gonna be just fine," Tattoo remarked.

Roarke grinned. "I believe you're right, my friend. We'd better get back."

They returned unobtrusively to the party, dressed in their usual white suits once more, to find that Leslie and Cassie were anxiously prowling the patio and about to go inside. "Is something wrong, Leslie?"

"We can't find J—Godfrey," Leslie said, barely catching herself in time. She didn't care if Cassie thought she knew who he was; she was determined not to blow the rocker's cover. "He was supposed to be getting more champagne…"

"Look there," Tattoo spoke up and pointed. Leslie and Cassie looked around in time to notice the front door standing open, drifting slowly aside, as though someone had rushed through it.

"Come on," Leslie blurted, and Cassie gasped and fled through the living room, Leslie hard on her heels. In the foyer they could see two mean-looking men—the ones, Leslie now saw, she had seen watching their altercation with the piano player at the pond restaurant—wrestling Jimmy toward a waiting car. The girls looked at each other.

"Godfrey!" Cassie cried, springing into action and leaping the steps with Leslie a couple of paces behind. "Godfrey! It worked, they fell for it—everybody thought it was you singing and playing. Wasn't he great? No one had any idea he was just moving his hands and lips to this song from the Jordan Jams album." With that, she clicked on the little tape recorder in her hand, and Jimmy's freshly-recorded live performance blared out of the speaker. Leslie hung back about halfway up the walk, deeply admiring Cassie for her quick thinking. The two men stared at her, and Jimmy peered at her in amazement while Cassie went on glibly, "And you had Mr. Applebaum fooled completely. You know, he's a Hollywood producer, and I'm trying to convince him that Godfrey should play the part of Jimmy Jordan in his TV movie." She went on snapping her fingers to the song, while Jimmy's would-be abductors looked on with mounting confusion. "Godfrey even looks like Jimmy Jordan, don't you think?"

Jimmy tried a wan little smile and ventured, "Jordan's a little taller…" Leslie had to consciously keep her face straight at that.

Cassie reached out and grabbed his arm. "Come on, Godfrey, Applebaum wants to talk to you." She yanked him toward her as she spoke, then peered at the two men with surprised curiosity. "Where're you guys going, anyway?"

"Uh…no place," said the one already behind the wheel of the car, as his companion got into the back seat.

"Somebody must've made a mistake," contributed Jimmy.

"Yeah, right," agreed Cassie, already herding him toward the house. Leslie joined them on their way in, marveling at the fifteen-year-old; she strongly suspected Taylor would never have had the gumption, or the ability, to pull that off.

"Now do you see why I didn't want to play?" Jimmy demanded.

"Just tell me what's going on," Cassie demanded, just as Roarke and Tattoo appeared from somewhere across the yard and completed their little entourage.

"Uh, Cassie…Godfrey…on the way to the party, I ran into someone trying to deliver a telegram. I, uh, took the liberty of accepting it, on behalf of Michelle." He handed Jimmy a small envelope; the rocker blinked.

"Telegram!" He grabbed Cassie's arm. "Come on, let's get back to the party."

"But Godfrey!" Cassie yelled as he hauled her inside after him; Roarke watched, and Leslie paused beside him, both grinning.

"You should have seen Cassie, Mr. Roarke," Leslie remarked. "She did great. I wish I could think as fast as she does."

"Ah, Leslie, but you do…and you have," Roarke said, confusing her. His grin widened. "Suppose we go inside and see what happens."

They were just in time to hear Michelle saying, "Excuse me, everyone…I invited you today because I want the people who are special to me to be the first to hear the news." Her face wore a look of strained happiness, which they could see already wearing down. "Charles, will you join me?"

A dumpy little dark-haired man with a smug smirk on his face came over and took her arm, and Michelle addressed the crowd again. "I gathered you here to announce that Charles and I—"

Cassie and Jimmy walked onto the patio then, Jimmy breaking in, "Excuse me…telegram for you, Miss Buchanan." He handed Michelle the envelope Roarke had given him as Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie paused on the patio to look on.

"Not here, Godfrey," Michelle muttered.

"_Now,"_ Jimmy said firmly, offering the envelope again.

Staring at him, she finally took it and pulled the telegram from the envelope. Then her face lit up and she exclaimed, "Listen, everybody…Charles and I aren't getting married." For the first time, the smirk evaporated off Charles Winslow's face. "The engagement's off. Celebrate, everybody." She removed her engagement ring and pressed it into the bewildered Charles' palm. "This is the happiest day of my life!" She noticed Charles as if for the first time and said solicitously, "Eat something, you'll feel better."

Cassie and Taylor closed in on her, and Taylor demanded, "Have you flipped?"

"Someone's taken over Father's company," Michelle exclaimed happily. "It's back on its feet. We can stay together!" She hugged her sisters, confounded expressions and all, nearly crying in her joy.

Roarke bent towards Jimmy, who stood with him and Leslie. "I take it you and your business manager had something to do with that telegram, hm?"

Jimmy smiled faintly and quipped, "How else was I gonna get a raise?"

After a moment Michelle wandered over to them and looked at Jimmy. "Godfrey…I have to speak to you for a minute." She glanced at Roarke and added, "Alone."

Roarke nodded and watched Michelle and Jimmy walk away to a more secluded area of the patio; Tattoo and Leslie peered at each other. "I hope she's not upset with him," Leslie fretted slightly. "I mean…"

Tattoo grinned. "I know what you mean. She did look very serious. But how could she be mad at him? She's so happy now that she can keep her sisters together."

Roarke nodded. "That was the real reason she nearly married Charles Winslow. The money he would have put into her father's corporation would have allowed her to keep Taylor and Cassie with her until Cassie reached the age of eighteen. Now, with the saving of the company, their future is assured."

They moved back towards the end of the patio in time to hear Jimmy ask, "What if I'm having the same…special feeling for you?"

"Are you?" Michelle asked, staring at him, eyes wide with hope.

"It's the animal in me," kidded Jimmy, and she grinned; then, slowly, their lips met. Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo exchanged surprised looks at the ardency of their kiss, then quietly retreated; Leslie wondered what Taylor in particular would think of this!

"Well, good," she murmured, another thought suddenly entering her head. "Looks like I can go to Myeko's Halloween party tonight after all."

Tattoo shot her a look. "Did you invite Taylor?"

"I tried to get Myeko to give her an invitation, but she wouldn't. Taylor said the other day she's not into that kind of party anyway, so I guess it's mutual. Hey, I tried." She eyed him. "Now will you stop trying to make me feel guilty?"

Roarke chuckled. "Let her be, Tattoo. She's had an interesting weekend, and I think she deserves the treat." Leslie smiled gratefully at him, and he squeezed her shoulder.

§ § § -- November 1, 1982

The Buchanan sisters and Jimmy Jordan climbed out of the limo on Monday morning looking much happier than they had all weekend; Michelle and Jimmy exchanged long looks before they all faced their hosts. "Thank you for hosting us these last few months, Mr. Roarke," Michelle said, "but Taylor wants to get back to school in New York, so we're going there to get her settled in and hire a butler and some staff to keep an eye on her." She smiled. "She'll be eighteen in less than a week anyway, and Cassie wants to stay in school here, so I thought once Taylor's settled, Cassie and I will come back here."

"I see," said Roarke quizzically.

"Taylor's got friends in her school there," Cassie explained, "but I got to like it here so much, I thought it'd be fun to stay and graduate from the high school here. I have new friends here and they're actually a lot of fun. Plus, most of 'em are Jimmy Jordan fans." They all laughed, and Michelle and Cassie shook hands with their hosts and started off toward the ramp to the charter's hatch.

"Hey, Leslie, uh…" Taylor looked uncharacteristically sheepish and uncertain. "I just wanted to say…well, thanks for being my friend. I'll never forget it."

Leslie smiled. "It's been fun. Good luck, Taylor." Taylor smiled, glanced at Roarke and Tattoo with nods, and followed her sisters.

"So are you planning to stay with the family, or go back to your career?" Tattoo asked.

Jimmy studied them thoughtfully. "Well, if those two hoods are still looking for me…being a butler worked once, figured it'd work again. Besides, I…" He glanced toward the retreating figures on the ramp. "I've gotten pretty attached to them. I've never been happier. Thank you. Thank you, Tattoo." He grinned, shook hands with all three and (after a swift glance around) signed Leslie's autograph book, then faced the plane. "Duty calls." They watched him go, grinning.

Andrea Barclay's car arrived a few seconds later, and Roarke handed her out, remarking, "Well, Miss Barclay, it seems you were a great success." He had filled Leslie and Tattoo in the previous evening on the story of how Andrea had successfully impersonated Lillie Langtry and, in Judge Roy Bean's own words, saved his reputation.

"Thank you, Mr. Roarke." Andrea chuckled. "After playing Langtry, Texas, my stage fright is gone for good."

"So history will record that Lillie Langtry once sang there," Roarke observed. "But I expect we'll soon be hearing more about one Andrea Barclay." As she dipped her head in acknowledgement, Roarke reached into his jacket. "Oh, incidentally…a friend of yours asked me to give you this." He handed Andrea a satin half-mask trimmed in black lace and mounted on a small stick, of the sort often seen at formal masquerade parties.

Andrea took it and chuckled softly. "Thank him for me, please. Goodbye, Mr. Roarke. Goodbye, Tattoo, and Leslie." They both bade her farewell and returned her last wave.

"So do you think she'll make it, Mr. Roarke?" Leslie asked.

"Why shouldn't she? With the boost of confidence she received this weekend, I daresay she will go very far in show business. And I'm sure Judge Roy Bean himself would vouch for her if he could." He grinned at them, and they gazed on as the plane sputtered into life and taxied away across the lagoon.

§ § § -- July 4, 2006

"So did she?" Christian inquired.

Julie nodded enthusiastically. "She may not be world-famous, on the order of somebody like, say, Billy Joel or Elton John, but she did make it on Broadway. She released three albums and she's sung on dozens of stage-show soundtracks. I've got most of her work, and I think she's great. My only regret is that I didn't get to see her that weekend to get her autograph, and I spent years picking on Leslie because she had the chance and didn't." They all laughed and resettled themselves in their seats, most taking sips from their beverage of choice. Rory had by now cadged a huge milkshake out of Mariki and was sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against his father's chair leg, contentedly slurping it up.

"It's amazing how many people seem to get their start here," Rogan remarked.

"Yeah," Leslie agreed. "Although Jimmy Jordan's career never did get back on track again. He wasn't able to testify till three years later, when there'd been some more mob hits and the two guys who'd been looking for him were both gunned down. The killer went to prison, and Jimmy had a couple of minor comeback hair-metal hits, but he'd lost so much momentum that he finally decided to just retire. His back catalog was selling like mad because of all the hoopla surrounding his apparent return from the dead, so he figured he'd quit while he was ahead and just enjoy life. He married Michelle, by the way. So he sure didn't have to worry about 'getting a start' here."

"Then there are those who don't," Roarke said with a chuckle. "There was the weekend we had a minor stage actress who hoped to graduate to being a stage _mother_ and see her daughter follow in her footsteps. And not only that, we had a lottery winner with a most unexpected identity."

Rory sat up excitedly, nearly spilling his milkshake. "Who, Uncle Roarke? Who?"

"A little patience, young man, and Leslie and I shall tell you," Roarke said with a grin, and once again settled comfortably back in his chair.


	14. Chapter 14

§ § § -- December 29, 1982

It was the middle of Leslie's second week of Christmas vacation from school, and the island was gearing up for Friday night's New Year's Eve bash. As always, Roarke had set aside the weekend closest to the holiday as a short vacation for himself and Tattoo; tourists might come to the island, but no fantasies were granted. Roarke and Leslie sat down to lunch on the veranda, where a folded newspaper lay in the chair Tattoo normally occupied. Roarke picked it up, idly curious, and realized it had been opened to the obituary column and folded back so that the first one was readily visible to the reader. Leslie glanced at him as she helped herself to a dish, and finally asked, "What's so interesting?"

"Oh, an unexpected passing," Roarke said, replacing the newspaper.

"Where's Tattoo?" she wanted to know.

Roarke glanced over the duck pond across the lane and remarked, "I believe he is preparing to attend a funeral. I'll be going myself, but since I am expecting a few important phone calls, you'll have to remain here in case they come in. I don't think it will take very long." There was a strange look on his handsome features, and his dark eyes reflected a touch of sadness. He shook his head to himself, then noticed Leslie watching him in bewilderment. "Eat your lunch. There's a busy afternoon ahead." He smiled, and she shrugged in response and started in. Roarke reflected that yet another task was about to be added to the list of those that needed completing; he'd have to call the newspaper and place an ad. _A shame,_ he thought, _that this death will undoubtedly go all but unnoticed. Perhaps something will happen to change that._ He served himself and began to eat, his mind on other things.

§ § § -- January 8, 1983

"Just how long is the driver on vacation, anyway?" Leslie asked curiously on Saturday. "He's been gone almost two months now."

"It's his first vacation in five years, Leslie," Tattoo said. "That's why the boss let him take his accrued time all at once. What's the matter, you don't like the boss's driving?"

"Cute," she said, while Roarke shot Tattoo a look that made the Frenchman grin. A few minutes later they reached the plane dock, where they found that their first guests were a family. Roarke introduced them: "That's Mr. Herbert Soames, his wife Beatrice, and their daughter Allison."

"Which one has the fantasy?" Tattoo asked.

"Mrs. Soames," Roarke said, "but her daughter is the one who is going to experience it." He smiled, and Tattoo's eyebrows drew together in a bewildered frown.

"Boss, you lost me," he said.

"Mrs. Soames used to be in the theater," Roarke explained. "Now her dream is for her daughter to pick up where she left off. Mrs. Soames' fantasy is for her daughter to perform in an operetta; unfortunately, Miss Soames has no desire to become an actress. As for Mr. Soames, he has a secret fantasy which, if fulfilled, will greatly influence his family's future happiness." Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other and shrugged in precise unison.

"I'm confused, boss," Tattoo said.

Roarke smiled. "Trust me." Tattoo shrugged again, and he and Leslie returned their attention to the plane, from which emerged a woman in a subtle gray business jacket and skirt, with blonde hair going to gray.

"Boss, who is the pretty lady?" inquired Tattoo.

"Her name is Ms. Margaret Stanton; she is an attorney with the law firm of Peabody, Melton and Sterne," Roarke informed them.

Tattoo made a short, worried "hm" sound. "Boss, she's here to sue us!"

Leslie laughed, and Roarke smiled at her reaction. "No, actually, Ms. Stanton was sent here by her firm to deliver a check to the person holding the winning ticket in the Irish sweepstakes."

Tattoo looked avidly interested and perplexed all at once. "Who did win?" he pressed almost impatiently. "Whose fantasy is it? Anybody I know?"

"Actually, you knew Ambrose Hoskins very well," Roarke said.

Tattoo frowned in consternation. "Ambrose? But boss, he's dead!"

"Which opens the door to a number of very interesting possibilities," Roarke observed with a mysterious smile. Leslie grinned; this one sounded like fun for a change!

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke met Margaret Stanton in Amberville's pedestrian shopping district, where she was already having some refreshment with Leslie and Tattoo. Roarke smiled apologetically. "Forgive me for being late, Ms. Stanton; I was unavoidably detained."

"Of course," Ms. Stanton said graciously, smiling. "Shall we get down to business?"

Roarke nodded and indicated the empty chair. "May I?"

"Please," she replied, and Roarke took a seat. "As you know, I was sent here by my firm to present this check to the winner of the Irish sweepstakes—a Mr. Ambrose Hoskins?" Roarke confirmed her facts, and she consulted a sheaf of papers. "Now, according to his file, Mr. Hoskins was a retired merchant-ship captain, and for the past seven years he worked here as your head groundskeeper." Leslie smiled; she remembered Tattoo having visited his friend Ambrose on a number of occasions before the latter's death the previous week, and though she had never formally met the man, she had often seen him at some distance, supervising the gardeners. He had been a gruff and demanding man, which had earned him a less-than-sterling reputation among Roarke's other employees, but evidently he and Tattoo had connected on some level. She knew a little about the man from Tattoo's occasional tales of their visits.

"Yes, that's true," said Roarke now, sitting back. "Unfortunately, Mr. Hoskins passed away only last week."

Ms. Stanton glanced at him and nodded slightly, separating a large bluish-green ticket from the rest of the papers. "There was another party named by the late Mr. Hoskins on the winning ticket," she said, handing it to Roarke, who read it, his expression going mildly startled. Leslie tilted her head to one side in curiosity.

"Who is it, boss?" Tattoo asked. "What's his name?"

Roarke eyed him, frowned slightly and passed him the ticket. Tattoo read aloud: "Ambrose Hoskins…and best friend?" He stared at Ms. Stanton. "Did Ambrose write that?"

"Yes," she said, "and I'm here on behalf of my firm to find his best friend and present him or her with the check."

"That's not gonna be easy," Tattoo warned her.

"What Tattoo is trying to say," Roarke broke in, "is that Mr. Hoskins was not blessed with…shall we say, a very amiable personality. You may have some difficulty locating his 'best' friend." Leslie chuckled then, catching everyone's attention.

"I'd think the question would be separating his real friends from his fake ones whenever word gets out that he won the lottery and named a best friend on the ticket," she said.

"Quite," Roarke agreed dryly and smiled. Tattoo nodded pensively.

"Still, I'd be most grateful for any help you could give me in locating his best friend," Ms. Stanton said earnestly, glancing from one to another of her hosts.

"Very well, Ms. Stanton, we will see what we can do," Roarke promised. "Tattoo, since you are familiar with all the members of our staff, as well as most of the island population, I want you to look into this matter at once. And you will be in full charge."

"Anything you say, boss," Tattoo said, "but like I said, it's not gonna be easy." He smiled politely. "Excuse me." With that, he got up and left them. Roarke glanced at Ms. Stanton and then at Leslie, who smiled and shrugged.

"Well, Leslie," he said, "suppose we show Ms. Stanton to her bungalow, and then you may have the morning off if you like. Tattoo will be busy and I have some paperwork to clear away, and since you did such a thorough job with yesterday's incoming mail, I thought you deserved a break."

"Thanks, Mr. Roarke," she said with a grin. "It's been a while since I could talk to my friends."

They were on their way back to the main house, where Leslie wanted to get her purse from her bedroom, when they heard a strident feminine voice getting steadily louder. "…if he thinks for one moment that…ah, there he is." Just as these words were uttered, they saw Herbert and Beatrice Soames appear around a bend in the path. "Mr. Roarke! Mr. Roarke, we have just come from the theater," Beatrice Soames announced, "and there is no rehearsal going on. Now, how can Allison star in _Naughty Marietta_ when she doesn't even rehearse?"

"I sent your daughter back in time so she could experience the true story," Roarke replied simply, turning Mrs. Soame's face into a mask of disapproval.

"You mean Allison is actually going to _be_ Marietta?" she demanded, and at Roarke's affirmation, she shook her head and released a long string of _no_s.

"Dear? Is something wrong?" Mr. Soames ventured in a gravel-filled, timorous voice.

"Is something wrong?!" his wife blared. "When I said that I wanted Allison to appear in an operetta, I meant act in it—not live in it." Then her face changed and she groaned, "Oh no. Captain Warrington!"

"Dear? Who's he?" Mr. Soames queried.

She seemed astounded by his ignorance. "He's the romantic lead in the operetta. She's going to meet him and fall hopelessly in love with him!"

"Dear? What's wrong with that?" he asked blankly. At this, Leslie lowered her head to hide the merriment that wanted to burst forth. _The original milquetoast,_ she thought. _Poor guy, he's just too funny!_

"Herbert," said Mrs. Soames impatiently, "he's a fantasy. There are no real men like him; he's perfect! And when her fantasy's over, can you imagine her reaction to the average, imperfect, slightly slobby real man?" Even Roarke had to stifle a smile at that; Leslie almost choked trying to hold down her giggles.

"Well, I suppose…" Mr. Soames began.

She broke in, "No, no, no. Mr. Roarke, bring my daughter back immediately."

"Oh, I'm afraid it's too late for that," Roarke said apologetically. "However, there is something I can do for you."

"Then I demand that you do it immediately," Mrs. Soames retorted, without even asking what it was.

"If you insist," Roarke said.

"I insist!" she shot back.

Roarke nodded and smiled. "Will you close your eyes, please?" She looked at her husband before doing so, and Roarke prompted, "You too, Mr. Soames…please?" At which Mrs. Soames opened her eyes again and drilled him with one pointed look; he shrugged and closed his eyes simultaneously with her. Roarke focused his full attention on the couple, narrowed his eyes at them for a few seconds, and waited. A bright golden flash enveloped them and they vanished entirely.

Leslie was relieved to finally release her glee. "What a pair! Where'd you send them, Mr. Roarke?"

"Back to the same place their daughter went," he said, "New Orleans in 1780—where they can help Allison live out her role in _Naughty Marietta."_

"Ooooh," Leslie blurted and started to laugh. "That could make you as naughty as Marietta. I almost wish I could see Mrs. Soames' reaction when she figures out where she is." He just grinned and ushered her on.

About an hour later, she was sitting at an outdoor table in front of the ice-cream shop with Michiko, Myeko and Lauren, enjoying a dish filled with two scoops of double-chocolate fudge, telling them about her morning so far. "…Her singing voice was worse than feline caterwauling at two in the morning, so Mr. Roarke had to give her a potion. Then she sounded like Beverly Sills."

"Oh wow," Myeko marveled. "I'd love that. Aren't we supposed to be doing _Naughty Marietta_ this year?"

"No, it's something else. You have to be an opera singer to do that one," Michiko told her. "And I'm sure Mr. Roarke wouldn't allow indiscriminate use of his potions even if we were. Oh…that reminds me. Leslie, some guy at school asked me if you were in touch with that girl Taylor you were friends with earlier this year…"

Just then the sound of a small engine grew audible and the girls all looked around to see Tattoo's little car prowling along the brick walks. Before any of them could comment, a young man with curly dark hair, whom Leslie recognized as Eddie, a room-service worker from the hotel, intercepted him in front of the sewing-notions shop just across the way, allowing the girls to hear every word of the conversation that followed. "Tattoo, listen, I'm really glad I bumped into you. I found this under the seat of my car." He displayed at Tattoo a small wooden object, which the girls couldn't clearly see. "I wasn't sure what to do with it. It belonged to Old Dad Hoskins."

The girls looked incredulously at one another, and Tattoo repeated, " 'Old Dad' Hoskins?"

"Yeah, I started calling him that just after he started calling me…'son'." Eddie pretended to wipe away a tear; Leslie rolled her eyes and was gratified to see Tattoo eye him with skepticism even a blind person couldn't have missed. Oblivious, Eddie continued, "You know, a lot of people used to bad-mouth him, but Old Dad was really a fun, crazy guy. Now he's up there somewhere, looking down at me, wishing he had done something nice for me…maybe left something like money for me." He emitted a loud, fake sniffle and held up the wooden item again. "Maybe by leaving this cross in my car, he was trying to tell me something."

Tattoo peered at the proffered cross, then gave Eddie a jaundiced look and remarked succinctly, "Maybe you should keep it." So saying, he gunned the motor and pulled away. Eddie remained crouching there on the walk for a moment, unaware of the girls' stares, then sighed and got up, losing himself in the crowd of weekend tourists.

"That was weird," Lauren remarked, looking bewildered. "What was that all about?"

"Who's 'Old Dad' Hoskins?" Myeko put in.

Leslie sighed gently. "Mr. Roarke's head groundskeeper, Ambrose Hoskins. He died last week, and it turns out he managed to win the Irish sweepstakes. The ticket names him and a best friend, but we don't know who that is, so Mr. Roarke put Tattoo in charge of finding out. And of course, every two-bit lackey on the island is trying to pass himself off as Mr. Hoskins' secret best pal."

Her friends looked at one another in awe. "No kidding," Lauren said. "How lucky can you get?"

"Or unlucky," Michiko pointed out, "since he died before he could enjoy the money." The girls murmured agreement, and she peered at Leslie. "And you're not helping?"

"I didn't know Mr. Hoskins," Leslie explained. "I'd have just gotten in the way of Tattoo's search. Besides, who would've wanted to deal with greedy amateur actors like Eddie?" She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder, and her friends laughed.

After lunch, which Margaret Stanton took with them at the main house, they acted on an idea Roarke had come up with and drove down the Ring Road to an airy little beachside cottage that perched on a cliff with a beautiful ocean view to the south. So far no one had disturbed the place since Hoskins' death; it looked as if he had merely gone to work and would be back at the normal hour. The main room was sparsely furnished and decorated in a nautical motif; a large oil portrait of Ambrose Hoskins hung just below the ceiling over a fireplace on the eastern end of the room. The man in the portrait was dressed as the sea captain he had once been, complete with beard and uniform; he was unsmiling. "Kind of spooky, huh, boss?" Tattoo remarked. "Almost like Ambrose is still alive."

"Perhaps he is, Tattoo," Roarke said, and the others peered curiously at him. "In a sense. Perhaps we should take a look around. Suppose we all split up?"

They scattered and began examining assorted items, although Leslie was leery of touching anything. She still had the eerie feeling that Hoskins would walk in at any moment. But just as she was working up the courage to start opening drawers, she saw Roarke lift a cloth off a wooden stand that held a large book, which he began to page through. She went over to join him, just as he leaned over to look more closely at one of the pages. "Tattoo, will you come here, please? This will be of great interest to you."

Tattoo and Ms. Stanton approached them, and Roarke began to read aloud. " 'The loneliness of old age is little understood by those who have not yet walked in the constant shadow of death. I have known and suffered the abuse and indignity, until finally I turned away from people. Only one person seemed to understand what it's like to grow old, to be without companionship. He used to come and visit me, asking for nothing, only to say hello. I hold him as my true and only friend. His name is…' " Roarke paused, glanced at Leslie who had been reading over his shoulder, and spoke just as she gasped. "…'Tattoo.' "

A stunned look dawned on Tattoo's features, and Leslie stared at him in amazement. Roarke smiled. "Well, Tattoo, it seems you found the 'best friend' you were looking for."

"Tattoo! You're a millionaire!" Margaret Stanton exclaimed.

New shock filled Tattoo's face. "Boss…I'm a millionaire?" he asked, as though he had to say it to make it seem real.

Roarke nodded, and Leslie grinned. "Just what you've always dreamed about!"

"I can't believe this!" Tattoo burst out, his face alight. "Ms. Stanton, I'm a millionaire! I'm rich, I'm rich!" Carrying on in this vein, he scuttled out the door as if to shout the news to the entire island. Leslie began to laugh; Roarke gazed at the book with great amusement, and Ms. Stanton watched him go, grinning.

"Don't you think we should catch up with him before he gets too carried away?" she suggested, chuckling at Leslie's laughter. "There are some legalities to take care of."

"Quite so," Roarke agreed, grinning too. "In that case, shall we repair to my study?"

The necessary preliminaries taken care of, Ms. Stanton returned to her bungalow to call her law firm, and Roarke took Tattoo to a recently remodeled cottage that had had a couple of extra rooms added to it in the renovation. For some reason Tattoo's little car was parked out front.

"What's my car doing here? I don't understand," Tattoo said, speaking before Leslie could. He reached for the doorknob, but Roarke beat him to it without answering his question.

"Oh no, no, allow me, please." He opened the door and gestured Tattoo inside; Leslie gave him a questioning look, but he simply smiled. Expecting a surprise party of some sort, she followed Tattoo in; but the main room was normally lit and very clearly deserted. Tattoo was as bewildered as she.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Welcome to the Presidential Bungalow, Mr. Tattoo," Roarke said expansively; his use of the honorific startled Leslie. "I hope it meets with your approval."

" 'Mr.' Tattoo?" the name's owner echoed.

A waitress from the pond restaurant appeared and offered them a tray containing three glasses. "Would you care for some champagne, Mr. Tattoo?"

"Thank you," Tattoo murmured, taking a glass. The woman offered Roarke the tray; he took a second glass, and Leslie accepted the third, filled with mango juice.

Just then Eddie's voice sounded from the adjacent dining nook; he must have come in from the newly added kitchen, Leslie realized. "The chef's prepared this meal especially for you. Rack of lamb, potatoes julienne, and crêpes Suzette." Leslie's eyes widened; it sounded good, if a little pretentious. Eddie stood there with an ingratiating smile on his face; she thought it was rather funny that the man who'd so obviously paraded his greed in front of Tattoo mere hours before was now so solicitous.

Roarke lifted his glass. "I propose a toast to Mr. Tattoo and his very good fortune."

Tattoo gestured to the meal and addressed the waitress. "Hey, Mitzi, you want to join us too?"

"Oh no," replied Mitzi in a professionally polite tone, "I'm afraid we can't. The rule against fraternizing with the guests." She smiled apologetically.

Roarke and Leslie clinked their glasses against Tattoo's and drank; then Roarke replaced his glass on the tray and consulted his pocket watch. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I must be getting back to work. I trust you'll enjoy your stay with us. Leslie?" At the top step he paused, making her nearly collide with him and hastily return her glass to Mitzi's tray as well. "Oh, and I would appreciate it if you would stop by my office later on and see me…at your convenience, of course. Excuse us." He guided Leslie out the door.

"Mr. Roarke, what in the world is going on?" Leslie demanded finally, unable to keep quiet any longer.

Roarke paused to regard her before starting the car's engine. "Do you recall what you said in Mr. Hoskins' cottage a while ago, when we discovered that he had designated Tattoo his best friend and that now he was a millionaire?"

Leslie hesitated, thinking back, frowning. "That it was what he always wanted?"

Her guardian nodded solemnly. "Precisely. He has just had a most cherished fantasy fulfilled, and you know what that means, don't you?"

"No," she said uncertainly, knowing she wouldn't like what was coming.

"He must leave the island," Roarke said gently, starting the car. "I am afraid that rules are rules." With that, he pulled away from the bungalow and headed for the Ring Road and home. Leslie, rendered thoroughly speechless, sat gaping sightlessly through the windshield the whole way.


	15. Chapter 15

§ § § -- January 8, 1983

Leslie had been trying to schedule fantasies for Roarke for the last hour and a half, but she was so unhappy and morose that she didn't have the enthusiasm she usually did for this work. She was aware of Roarke glancing at her from time to time, but she wouldn't meet his gaze, and he didn't push the issue. It was just as well; she didn't want to talk anyway.

All of a sudden the foyer door slammed, and Tattoo appeared at the top of the steps, his hand over his chest, looking a little winded. "What's wrong, Mr. Tattoo? What's all that commotion out there?" asked Roarke, making Leslie aware now that there were a lot of voices in the yard.

"Boss, they're going crazy!" Tattoo exclaimed, entering the room. "Strangers are asking me for loans, and my friends act like they don't even know me anymore. Even Susie and Marco said they had to go home." Susie and Marco were a pair of children from town whose single mother worked at the hotel; Tattoo had become friends with both the kids and their mother. He climbed into a club chair.

"Well, that's to be expected, I suppose," Roarke observed. "You see, a man's station in life often dictates who his friends can be."

"Friends!" Tattoo groaned and rolled his eyes. "They were more like a hit squad!"

Leslie smiled faintly in sympathy, unable to muster up more than that; Roarke arose, chuckling and rounding her chair to take the seat next to Tattoo's. "Well, why not hire a bodyguard? Lots of celebrities have them. It would keep the crowds away. Ah, don't worry. I'm sure you will adjust." His demeanor changed and a serious expression stole over his features. "Which brings me to the reason I wanted you to see me."

Tattoo looked at Leslie, who bit her lip hard and looked instantly away. "I knew it," he mumbled.

"Do you remember when we had so many guests who wanted to stay and live here after their fantasies were fulfilled?" Roarke asked.

"Yes, that's when I suggested to have a working rule to make room for the new guests." Roarke nodded, and Tattoo suddenly stood up, frowning. "What are you getting at?"

"I'm afraid you can't stay on the island any longer," Roarke said gently. "Regrettably, you'll have to leave on the morning flight." They both heard Leslie gasp, but Tattoo, overcome with shock, paid no attention.

"But boss…I love it here!" he protested. "All my friends are here! I _belong_ here!"

"I am so sorry, you must believe that," Roarke said, truly apologetic, "and I hate to see you go. But I'm also very happy for you. Think of all the wonderful things you'll be able to do with your money."

"Boss," entreated Tattoo, "you always have the answer for everything. Do you know any way we can get around this, so I can stay here?"

"I'm afraid not." Roarke rose. "It's always been your fantasy to be rich, Tattoo. Suppose I did let you stay. What would happen, huh? Hundreds of people would follow your example, and then we would be so overcrowded that we could no longer function. Fantasy Island would no longer exist as we know it. Would you want that?" The question was directed as much to Leslie as to Tattoo.

"No, no, never," Tattoo said.

"Well, then, you see, our hands are tied," Roarke said. His expression shifted again and sadness filled his dark eyes. "You do know how much we're going to miss you, don't you?"

"Not as much as I'm going to miss both of you," Tattoo murmured.

Roarke watched him. "You do understand, don't you?" Tattoo nodded, and Roarke looked at Leslie. "Do you?" She gave one jerky nod, just to keep him from repeating the question.

Roarke, who had an appointment, started for the foyer, leaving the two where they sat; he paused, glanced back once, only to see Leslie break a gaze that was surprisingly hostile. She lowered her head over the book in her lap, and he sighed quietly and left.

Tattoo turned on Leslie then. "Did you know the boss was gonna do this?"

Her head jerked back up and she instantly burst into tears. "He told me…" she managed. "I knew he was going to say you had to go. But I d-didn't think he'd m-make you leave so s-soon!" She angrily backhanded tears off one cheek. "How can he do this? I got my fantasy, and here I am, so why not you?"

Tattoo went to her and gripped her hands, ironically finding himself forced to play devil's advocate. "You got to stay here because the boss was fulfilling your mother's fantasy, Leslie," he corrected her gently. "She asked him to help you break the family curse, and she asked him to raise you. You're here because it was her fantasy, not yours. Do you see what I'm saying?"

She stared at him, realizing he was right but unwilling to admit it. "Well, I still don't think it's fair."

"I don't like it, but that's the way the rules go." Tattoo looked down at their joined hands and squeezed hers. "But don't you ever think I'd forget my favorite honorary niece…never. Hey, come on, don't blame the boss. He's right, you know. I want you to promise me that when he comes back, you apologize, okay? Tell him you understand the rules and that he can't break them just for me. Okay?"

"Okay, but only because you're the one asking," Leslie said, blinking away tears.

Tattoo actually managed a smile for her benefit. "Good. I guess maybe I should go and start packing my stuff." For a split second before he yanked his hands out of hers and fled through the open French shutters behind the desk, she saw his face crumple and knew she wasn't the only one grieving.

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke had talked Leslie into coming with him to check on another fantasy, requested in person the previous day by a vacationing couple named Clemens, and she had shrugged and agreed, putting aside the date book she just couldn't keep her mind on. Despite Tattoo's words, she still found herself blaming Roarke for sending him away, but knew there was no changing his mind. She had remained silent all the way to the meeting, and he had let her do so. Undoubtedly, she thought dismally, he knew she was stewing in her own juices, especially in the wake of that blasted promise she'd made Tattoo.

He was in the middle of counseling patience to their guests when he happened to glance over and see Tattoo sitting alone at a table. "Oh, will you excuse me for a moment? I'll see you in my office, all right?" They agreed, and he made his way to Tattoo's table, with Leslie trailing listlessly.

Tattoo put on a patently false happy face when he saw them coming. "This is great," he said. "I'll be living in Paris, New York and Aspen. You gonna come see me?"

"Oh, I would love to," Roarke agreed, "that is, if I can ever manage to take the time off. I'm sure Leslie would as well." He shot her a swift but pointed look.

Tattoo essayed, "Wasn't that Mr. and Mrs. Clemens over there with you?"

Roarke took the only other chair. "Tattoo, remember, under the present circumstances, I cannot discuss the fantasies of our guests with you."

Tattoo's frustration got the better of him. "Boss, this is terrible! I can't believe that Ambrose wanted me to leave the island. He knows how much I like the place."

"Yes," Roarke mused. "Well, perhaps he didn't take into consideration the circumstances, you know? I wonder what Ambrose would have done with the money had he lived to collect it." He gave Tattoo a sharp look that even Leslie couldn't misread, and she peered at him, her sagging spirits lifting slightly.

"Hmm," muttered Tattoo, making a face. "I wish I knew."

"I suggest you give some thought to it," Roarke suggested a little pointedly, rising.

"But boss," Tattoo protested, "I don't have the time. I gotta leave tonight."

"Well, you still have a few hours. Perhaps something will come to you…something you may have overlooked." He smiled slightly, then guided Leslie across the clearing to where the car waited.

She squinted up at him and smiled, speaking to him for the first time all afternoon. "I think I know what you're trying to do, Mr. Roarke," she said softly. "Thanks for trying to make him find a way to stay on the island. And I'm sorry I got mad at you for sticking to the rules."

Roarke smiled back and hugged her close. "I can't blame you for feeling as you did," he said. "Even I was upset at having to enforce the rule, but I had no choice. Perhaps things will change. All we can do is give him a chance to go over things in his own mind."

By the time they stopped by the Presidential Bungalow to pick up Tattoo, it was clear he had been wearing himself out thinking. Ms. Stanton, who had come with them, seemed oblivious to Tattoo's mood. "You'd better hurry, Tattoo. We don't want to miss the plane."

He didn't move, and Roarke leaned forward as if this would help him to see his assistant better. "Is something wrong, Mr. Tattoo?" he asked.

Tattoo's round face looked tired. "Boss, I remember something that Ambrose told me a long time ago."

Roarke leaned farther down. "What?"

"About a dream he had—to be back with his old friends again. Well, he told me he wrote everything down, and he was gonna show it to me."

Roarke straightened up and asked, "Now where do you suppose he would have left such a message?"

"The only place it could be—the cottage. Come on, let's look." Tattoo led the way out the door, and within ten minutes they were there, searching in earnest. Even Leslie found little, if any, reluctance in her eagerness to find whatever it was they were searching for. But after some fifteen minutes Tattoo groaned, "It's no use. Boss, I don't even know what to look for!"

"It seems important, though," Roarke mused, focusing on Leslie, who was standing in one spot scanning the walls. "I wonder…where would a sailor keep something important, huh?"

She froze, her eyes glued on something they had somehow missed seeing the first time they'd been in the cottage. "What about that bottle up there on the cabinet?" she asked, pointing at it.

"Ah, perhaps so!" Roarke exclaimed and went to retrieve it; the others gathered around him while he removed a rolled-up sheet of paper. At Tattoo's urging, he read it aloud. " 'Dear Tattoo…' " They all looked at one another before he resumed. " 'I'm writing this to you because you are the only one who would understand. I miss the sea and the men who sailed it. I long for their rough ways and their tall tales. Some nights I go down to the shore and dream of a place where men of the sea can all be together again, where we could always hear the surf pounding against the sand, a place where we could sit and share our dreams, and remember the days when we were young.' "

"That's beautiful," Ms. Stanton said softly, "but it's kind of sad, too."

All of a sudden Tattoo shook his head hard, then reached into his jacket, withdrew his plane ticket and began to tear it up. Roarke watched, Leslie gaped, and Ms. Stanton exclaimed, "Tattoo, what are you doing? Aren't we going to catch the plane?"

"No," Tattoo said firmly. "I don't have to be a millionaire. I'm a millionaire right here. I make people's dreams come true. No amount of money would make me leave that."

"You mean you don't want the million dollars?" the lawyer asked in amazement.

"Oh yes, but not for me." Tattoo turned to Roarke. "Boss, for once I can make people's fantasies come true all by myself."

"That's right, Tattoo, you certainly can," Roarke agreed quizzically.

Tattoo nodded and asked, "Ms. Stanton, will you make all the arrangements necessary, please?"

"What for?" she asked.

Tattoo smiled. "For the Hornpipe Retirement Home for Mariners," he told her. His heavy French accent rendered the words almost unintelligible to Ms. Stanton, but Roarke repeated them for her benefit, and Tattoo smiled a little sheepishly. "Sounds nice, no?"

"Very good, Tattoo," Roarke said, beaming. "Very good indeed."

"Oh," Tattoo added then, "it should be a big white house, overlooking the sea…" He cast a glance at Leslie over one shoulder, then concluded, "…in New England."

Leslie lit up. "That's perfect, Tattoo!" she exclaimed, delighted, and they all laughed.

Ms. Stanton said cheerfully to Tattoo, "I'm sure I can find exactly what you—what Ambrose would want. I'll get on it right away." She rose and headed for the door.

"Oh, thank you very much, thank you!" Tattoo called after her, and they watched her go before Tattoo's gaze drifted to the portrait of Hoskins on the wall and grew wistful. "Boss, it's kind of a shame that Ambrose isn't gonna be there to enjoy it."

"Oh, he will be, Tattoo," Roarke said in a vaguely mysterious tone. He glanced at the ceiling with a little smile. "He will be." His and Leslie's gazes followed Tattoo's to the painting; even as they stared, the slight smile on the man's painted features turned suddenly into a genuine grin of wholehearted approval.

§ § § -- January 10, 1983

The Soames family had been enlarged by one, with the quiet marriage of their daughter Allison to her weekend leading man, Richard Ames, who had played Captain Warrington in the operetta as per his own fantasy. Herbert Soames' fantasy—to have his wife see how her pushy ways were alienating him and their daughter—had been granted too; they all looked much happier. As they retreated up the plane dock and Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie were returning their waves, Leslie peered at her guardian and remarked laughingly, "Mr. Ames doesn't look even slightly slobby to me."

Roarke laughed. "No, indeed he does not." Before a surprised Tattoo could pose any questions, the second rover appeared and Roarke handed Margaret Stanton out of the car.

She thanked him and said, "Tattoo, I'll be in Cape Cod tomorrow looking at property."

"Cape Cod?" Tattoo echoed, looking at Leslie, the native New Englander.

She grinned. "It's the perfect place. You should be able to find something fabulous there." They laughed and Tattoo gave her a thumbs-up.

"Mr. Roarke, I didn't come here for a fantasy, but I feel happier than I've ever felt before." Ms. Stanton smiled at them all, kissed Tattoo's cheek, and went to board the plane.

Watching her go, Roarke remembered something. "Oh…Tattoo, there is a small matter I need to clear up with you."

"Oh? What is it, boss?"

"It's in regard to your bill." Roarke reached into his jacket and removed a sheet of paper.

Tattoo looked blank. "Bill? What bill?"

Roarke cast him one incredulous look before pointing out, "Well, you did have the most expensive bungalow on the island, and then there is champagne, caviar, the finest of everything. Look." He handed the multi-page bill to Tattoo, who went through it with a good bit of consternation.

"Boss, I gave all my money away. It's gonna take me six years to pay that bill!"

"In that case, I'll have to charge it to…" Roarke stuck the bill back inside his jacket, swept Tattoo and Leslie with a glance of dawning amusement, and concluded, "Overhead." Tattoo shot a profoundly grateful glance skyward and folded his hands together, breathing a great sigh of relief. Behind his back, Roarke and Leslie shared huge, gleeful grins.

§ § § -- July 4, 2006

"Wow," Rory mourned when they finished. "Tattoo really gave away all that money? Gee whiz. Imagine all the great toys I could buy with a million bucks."

"Keep dreaming, kiddo," said Julie, her look warning everyone not to remind Rory that he had only to conjure up said toys if he wanted them that much.

"How about another action-packed tale, then?" Rogan inquired. "That last one was amusing, to be sure, but I must admit to a wee bout of boredom."

"Then this ought to get you going," Leslie told him. "I bet you'll never forget Vanessa Walgren, Father."

"No, I certainly won't," Roarke agreed with a laugh. "She's right, Rogan, this should provide more than enough action for you."

§ § § -- March 12, 1983

All week Leslie had been seeing roped-off areas and signs announcing "Pentathlon Event Site", and had been more than a little curious; her friends had been asking her about it, but she had been unable to tell them anything. So when Saturday morning finally arrived, she could no longer hold back the question, and by the time they reached the plane dock, her curiosity had hit full boil. "Are we finally going to find out what the hype is all about?"

"That you are," Roarke assured her. As if on cue, their first guest emerged from the plane, and he nodded. "Ah, Mr. Tom Vale, a Wall Street economist from Montclair, New Jersey."

Tattoo eyed the man with interest. "Sounds pretty glamorous," he remarked. "Maybe he's looking for a partner."

"Uh, no, no, Tattoo. Mr. Vale is here because he wants to experience the world of old-time burlesque."

"Burlesque?" echoed Tattoo, lighting up with even more interest. "You mean like in strippers? Oh, boss…like I said, maybe he's looking for a partner."

Roarke awarded him a disapproving glare that made Leslie snicker. "Burlesque was much more than a strip-tease, Tattoo," he said a bit severely. "It was a spirited variety show with song and dance and marvelous comedy. In fact, Mr. Vale's fantasy is to become a comic headliner. Those other aspects of burlesque don't interest him at all."

"Anything you say, boss," Tattoo replied amiably, but Roarke still peered suspiciously at him before deciding to let the subject lie. Leslie grinned; then her attention was captured by the pretty, lithe blonde woman exiting the plane. Tattoo's was as well, it turned out. "Boss, she's a foxy lady," he said with clear appreciation.

"Wow, you've really got a one-track mind today," Leslie remarked with a laugh.

"Indeed," said Roarke. " 'Foxy'…now really, Tattoo." Then his gaze grew concerned and he stared at the newcomer. "But you may be right, in more ways than you can imagine."

"What do you mean? What's her fantasy?" Tattoo asked, finally growing serious.

"That's Mrs. Vanessa Walgren," Roarke said, "an amateur sportswoman who wants very much to become a professional. She says her fantasy is to win the first annual Fantasy Island Pentathlon, being held here privately this weekend."

"She _says?"_ Leslie repeated, catching the phrase.

"That should be easy," Tattoo put in, "since you're judging the competition."

Roarke stared at the woman. "Yes, but while I'm judging the competition, I'm afraid Mrs. Walgren will be judging me. In fact, before this weekend is over, she will appoint herself my judge, my jury…and my executioner." That got a frown from Tattoo, and Leslie heaved a long sigh, feeling the pterodactyls take up roost in her stomach again—especially when Vanessa Walgren, raising her glass to return Roarke's weekly toast, shot him a meaningful look that was impossible to miss.

‡ ‡ ‡

Once they had properly launched Tom Vale into his fantasy and seen that it was off to a good start, the trio made a somber trip to Vanessa Walgren's bungalow. Roarke rang the doorbell—another new installation from the previous summer for the bungalows—and after a pause, they heard a female voice call from inside, "Come in." They did so in silence, and Vanessa Walgren nodded politely. "Ah, Mr. Roarke…Tattoo, Leslie. Sit down."

"Thank you," said Roarke on behalf of them all, and took a chair; Leslie settled into its twin, and Tattoo stood between them. "Well, Mrs. Walgren, I hope you've prepared for the competition this weekend. IT's going to be difficult."

"I am," she assured them, tipping her head quizzically. "But I heard there's going to be no audience, no spectators. Why?"

Roarke smiled. "It's a private competition between the best men and women in the world. They are interested in sport, not applause.

"Ah," Vanessa said. "And the five events?"

"Fencing, martial arts, a quest involving dressage, skydiving, and the 'friend or foe' competition." Roarke arose and settled onto the sofa beside her, while Tattoo took the vacated chair. "Well, Mrs. Walgren, are the conditions of the pentathlon satisfactory to you?"

"Yes, very," she said. "In fact, they're perfect."

"Good," said Roarke. "Then why don't we talk about the real reason you came to Fantasy Island." At which Tattoo and Leslie exchanged surreptitious glances and both leaned perceptibly forward in their chairs.

Vanessa's expression turned cold. "All right, let's." They all saw her gaze go to a small framed photograph of a handsome, rugged-looking dark-haired man with a mustache, holding a tennis racket over his shoulder and wearing a half-smile. "That's my husband, Michael. He came here a month ago to have a fantasy…and died."

The name rang a bell with Tattoo. "Michael Walgren, the tennis pro?" That in turn awoke Leslie's memory, and she bit her lip, remembering the uproar everyone on staff had been in for more than a week. It had been a wonder business had gone on as usual.

Roarke nodded confirmation. "Yes, Tattoo, Mr. Walgren's fantasy was to repeat the famous Kon-Tiki voyage." To Vanessa he said, "I warned him of the dangers of sailing the high sea on a raft."

"You warned him?" she repeated in disbelief. "What did you do to protect him?"

"The storm that moved in and destroyed his raft was unpredictable. We sent out a rescue party immediately, of course, but it was too late. I am deeply sorry."

"I don't want apologies," Vanessa said in a hard voice. "I want answers."

"I wish I could give you some, but I'm afraid it's impossible," Roarke replied quietly, his tone regretful. He looked at the photo again. "It was a terrible tragedy."

"Tragedy? I think there's a cover-up going on. The police won't investigate—I tried that." She scowled blackly.

"I assure you," Roarke said, "you are wrong. That's all I can say."

She sat back, gave him a frigid, narrow-eyed glare and a nod, then got up and stalked towards the indoor terrace. "Well. Then what I came here to do won't be so difficult after all." Leslie sat up straight and Tattoo's gaze grew sharp and watchful; but she was focused solely on Roarke. "My husband's dead. As far as I'm concerned, you murdered him, and you're going to pay." She stepped forward, leaned over so that she was on his seated eye level, and said, "I've put a bounty on your head of a million dollars."

That was too much for Tattoo. "Boss, let me call the police right away." He turned and picked up the phone, but Roarke stopped him.

"No, don't…don't, Tattoo," he said, earning a stunned look from the Frenchman. Leslie, for her part, couldn't keep her shocked stare off Vanessa Walgren. Roarke went on as Tattoo slowly replaced the receiver: "I know you feel tremendous grief and anger. You obviously loved your husband very much. But if you could just wait until the weekend is over…"

She only stood up and informed him implacably, "The bounty is on."

Roarke slowly got to his feet, watching her carefully. "Very well," he said coolly. "I accept the challenge…on the condition that, if I am still alive when the weekend is over, you promise to give up any further ideas of revenge and go home."

She nodded. "Agreed."

"Thank you," Roarke said quietly. "Will you excuse me." He started briskly for the door; Tattoo threw his hands into the air in astonishment and followed, casting a scowl over his shoulder at Vanessa Walgren even as Roarke prompted, "Tattoo…Leslie."

Tattoo made an urgent come on gesture at Leslie, but she took her time standing up, all the while glaring at a serene-faced Vanessa with blazing eyes. Behind her, Roarke walked out the door without looking back; Tattoo paused just within the doorway and waited, as angry at Vanessa as anyone else, but eager to get Leslie out of her sight.

Leslie's fury overrode her common sense and she snarled suddenly, "If you succeed in killing my guardian, _I'll _put a bounty on _your_ head. And then maybe you'll know just what it feels like to be the target of blind, unreasoning hatred!" She whipped around and stalked for the door without waiting for a reply, and Tattoo hastily backpedaled out the door to keep from being mowed down.


	16. Chapter 16

§ § § -- March 12, 1983

No one spoke on the way back to the main house; Leslie's temper was at such a boil that Tattoo was afraid to say anything to her, while Roarke didn't even appear to notice her rage at all. When they did arrive, all he said was, "We'd better change our clothing for the first competition." Tattoo sighed loudly and detoured to his own car to make the trip to his cottage so he could do so. Leslie and Roarke walked into the house in a heavy silence, which he broke only when they were inside. "Why didn't you come out with Tattoo and me?"

Leslie only shook her head. "What right does she have to call out a vendetta on you, Mr. Roarke?" she demanded. "And what's more, why are you letting her get away with it? I have to tell you…I'm so fed up with people trying to get their little piece of you or this island. That Douglas Picard last year, with his prehistoric deed to the island, claiming it was really his. Then that sadistic madman Frank Barton a few weeks later. And last November, that TV reporter trying to prove a claim of fraudulence. Now we've got this woman who wants you dead—and you're letting her try to kill you!" Her voice rose to a nearly hysterical shout. "I'm sick and tired of these crazy people coming here and threatening you and this island and everything that means anything to you and me and Tattoo! Why can't they just accept the vagaries of life and get on with theirs…and why can't you make them do it?" With that, she raced up the stairs, ignoring his sharp calls for her to come back.

She slammed the door to her room, stripped and changed into equestrian attire, fury driving her every move. What in the world was the sudden attraction to this island for people with axes to grind, she wondered? Was it possibly Roarke's, and Fantasy Island's, fame among celebrities and other rich people? Was it the kind of challenge that those with sick minds found impossible to resist? She just couldn't understand the onslaught of attacks against Roarke and the island; she felt buffeted, unprotected, as if the foundations of her life were being shaken. "Again," she snapped aloud, hurling a shoe across the room and feeling perversely satisfied at the loud thud it made when it connected with the wall. "Once isn't enough, it's gotta happen again. That woman better watch herself." Fuming, she retrieved the shoe and finished dressing.

She returned to the study and found it empty; Tattoo came in several minutes later, but to her relief he said nothing. Neither did Roarke when he arrived; he glanced at the girl staring out a window, her back to the room, but merely crossed the room to the desk and picked up a riding crop before pausing at the shutter doors. He was aware of Tattoo's gaze on him as he relaxed against the doorjamb and considered the situation, absently fingering the crop.

"Boss, why don't you let me call the police?" Tattoo demanded when the silence became too oppressive for him.

"Because I can't, Tattoo," Roarke replied flatly.

"Then why don't you leave the island?" Tattoo persisted.

"Because Mrs. Walgren's coming here has placed her in a very vulnerable position. I can't leave her unprotected." At this Leslie's temper blew again, but she determinedly held her silence; the only sign of her effort to control was a full-body flinch.

"You're the one who needs the protection!" snapped Tattoo in disbelief.

Roarke glanced at him and at Leslie, then pushed himself off the doorsill and said, "Well, it's time for the 'friend or foe' competition; I should be getting out onto the field."

Tattoo kept trying. "Boss, let me judge the games. I know what I'm doing. If you go out there, you'll be like a sitting duck!"

Roarke's expression softened. "Don't worry, Tattoo, I'll be very careful." Tattoo released a resigned sigh and subsided at last, unable to think of any further arguments, and Roarke smiled, settling into one of the club chairs. He glanced again at Leslie, who seemed to have planted roots where she stood, and spoke in a gentle tone. "Leslie, sweetheart, come here, please."

The endearment, so rare coming from either him or Tattoo, caught her attention as nothing else would have; she slowly turned and stared at him, then shuffled to the other chair and sat, her face still filled with rage. He drew in a slow breath, then turned to Tattoo and entreated quietly, "Tattoo, please trust me. We've been friends a long time, haven't we?"

"Yes," Tattoo said, "and that's why I can't understand why you're acting this way." His gaze dropped and he added reluctantly, "It looks like you have something to hide about Mr. Walgren's death."

Leslie folded her arms over her chest, then sat up straight when Roarke confessed in that same quiet tone, "I do." He met Tattoo's stunned gaze, then Leslie's, and repeated, "I do." Yet he was smiling, and they looked at each other and back at him, more baffled than ever.

"So does that mean you're gonna just let her try to kill you, then?" Leslie demanded.

Roarke sighed and took her hand. "You and I must find time to discuss your earlier outburst, but unfortunately there's none now. We're going to be late if we don't leave this moment. But I can promise you this, Leslie: I have good reasons for doing what I am doing, and I would appreciate your trust as well as Tattoo's. Can you give me that?"

She blew out a breath of annoyed resignation and grumbled, "Just once, I wish you'd tell us your secrets up front, instead of driving us insane with suspense and enjoying the results all weekend long."

"I'm with her," Tattoo said emphatically, and Roarke laughed and ushered them along out the door.

‡ ‡ ‡

Not being an athlete, Leslie was more than willing to remain with Tattoo according to Roarke's explicit and very stern instructions; but she didn't like having her guardian out of her line of sight in view of what he faced. One idea that Tattoo had insisted upon, and refused to back down on, was to keep in touch with Roarke via walkie-talkie; and when Roarke had seen Tattoo stand his ground, he'd given in. Now, at the stables in front of yet another of last summer's additions, improvements and renovations—a barn built in the same Queen Anne style as the main house—Tattoo checked in with Roarke, his voice stern from a strong sense of urgency. "Boss, they're moving to the third position. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Tattoo," Roarke's voice crackled through the tiny speaker. "Don't worry, the competition's almost over."

Leslie snorted in a very unladylike way, and Tattoo rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, he says." He stalked away muttering in agitated French, and Leslie followed, peering over her shoulder into the trees. Her preoccupation with Roarke's whereabouts served to spare her the sight of Vanessa Walgren, decked out in army camouflage and carrying a crossbow and arrows, sauntering along the judges' tables in front of the boards that listed the contestants.

Well hidden in the trees, Roarke watched her as she cantered down the path; something snapped somewhere nearby, and she whirled and shot the crossbow without even thinking about it. The arrow landed smack on the tiny target painted on the cardboard cutout of a charging bear. She relaxed, glanced behind her and continued on. Roarke lifted the walkie-talkie and said low, "Tattoo, three more points for Mrs. Walgren."

Inside the barn, Tattoo lifted his clipboard and made the obligatory note. Leslie watched him do it, then peered out the window, half wanting to see what was happening and half afraid she would.

Roarke cantered slowly on, carefully scanning the trees; fortune seemed to be on his side, for he caught a glint of sunlight off something hidden in the foliage. Instinct drove him to rein in the horse just as he heard a twang; half a second later an arrow thunked into a tree mere inches from where beast and rider stood. Roarke whipped his head around at the sound; the horse shied, rearing in an attempt to throw him off.

This happened just within earshot of the barn, though all Tattoo and Leslie heard was the horse's panicked squealing. Leslie ran to the window anyway, and Tattoo seized his walkie-talkie. "Talk to me, boss! Are you all right?" he demanded urgently.

Roarke, too involved in trying to stay mounted and regain control over the horse, didn't reply. After a few moments he took advantage of his mount's fright-generated energy and spurred him into a panicked gallop; now he could see the person who had tried to shoot him. The man frantically reloaded at all the speed he could muster, but when he stood up and aimed, it was already too late. Roarke had managed to turn his horse in his attacker's direction, and as they flashed by, he lashed out with his riding crop and caught the man in the upper arm, knocking the crossbow out of his hand and the man himself to the ground.

The horse had finally expended enough energy for Roarke to regain the upper hand, and he reined in, wheeling around to face the felled man. "Get off my island, Mr. Powers," he snapped, pointing the riding crop at him to emphasize his anger. "Now."

Powers got up and fled, leaving the crossbow where it lay. Roarke watched him go, still too worked up to hear Tattoo's frantic yelling into the walkie-talkie. In the barn, Tattoo finally grew too frustrated to stay put any longer and, dropping the clipboard, ran from the barn, Leslie right on his heels.

In the clearing, Vanessa Walgren strolled out of the foliage, and Roarke dismounted, giving the now-quiet horse a couple of calming pats. He glanced into the trees after the vanished Powers, then turned back to her. "Give this up, Mrs. Walgren."

She stared narrowly at him, shook her head just perceptibly, then yanked her own crossbow into firing position. From the tree a few yards behind Roarke, a life-size cardboard cutout that bore his own image flashed into view, thumping into place. The sound made Roarke flinch. She pulled the trigger, and her arrow landed on the target, right through the heart. Roarke turned to stare at it, then at her, actual alarm registering in his eyes for the first time. The ghost of a smile flickered across her face at sight of it, and she said, "Next time you won't be so lucky." So saying, she strolled back into the trees.

She was no sooner gone than Leslie raced out of the woods, followed by Tattoo who was laboring to keep up on his shorter legs. Once they got past the horse and saw the target, they both came to a screeching halt. Leslie gaped; Tattoo turned from the target to Roarke and burst out, "Boss!" Roarke glanced at him, swallowed visibly and turned away. Leslie bit her lip; only once before had she ever seen her guardian's composure shattered—at the death of Helena Marsh—and it was unnerving.

Roarke judged the martial-arts competition after lunch; unusually, he was as much on edge as Leslie and Tattoo were. He had been much less ruffled by Frank Barton; the hunter's madness had driven him to overt attempts to take Roarke's life, making it easy for Roarke to outwit him. Vanessa Walgren was another matter. She was clearheaded and completely sane, driven by grief and an unshakable determination to see the end of the man she was convinced had murdered her husband. Consequently, he had to remain sharp and alert throughout. However, the competition went off without incident, with Vanessa taking the championship as she had in the dressage contest.

The recreation center in Amberville, with its large main room suitable for formal dances and large banquets, was the scene of the fencing tournament; the final match was in progress. It was now past eight o'clock and darkness had fallen. As the judge, Roarke closely followed the movements of the two opponents as they advanced on each other across the mats, blades flashing and clanking with rapid regularity. At last one blade made contact with the mask on the other fencer, and Roarke called out, "Touch…and match!" He approached the winning fencer, whose mask came off to reveal Vanessa Walgren. At the far end of the room, Leslie and Tattoo watched in a tense silence. Leslie was scowling; the room had been so quiet that she could have sworn her sharp ears had picked up a hissed _"Now!"_ just before Vanessa Walgren made her winning touch. But she wasn't sure enough to tell Roarke.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Walgren," Roarke said, polite as ever, but his voice distinctly frosty. "You win again."

Her opponent, Henri Ducette, approached her and shook her hand. "Mrs. Walgren," he acknowledged with a British tinge to his speech. "Mr. Roarke, I should like a word with you outside. It's really most urgent." Roarke watched him leave, then turned to Vanessa and gave a chilly nod which she returned. Excusing himself, he started after Ducette.

Tattoo and Leslie met him by the board displaying the names of the remaining contestants, and Tattoo began, "Boss…" Roarke held up a hand to stop him and then placed the same hand on his shoulder for a moment, without ever breaking stride. Tattoo and Leslie watched him go; then Tattoo turned away with a resigned look and found Vanessa watching them. He must have sensed Leslie stiffen behind him, for he cast a warning glance at her over his shoulder; she met his eyes for only a second before looking away.

Roarke found Vanessa's opponent standing some distance away from the building beside a small round table on which stood a lit candelabra. Lying crossed in front of it were two sabers. "Join me, please, Mr. Roarke," the man suggested, handing Roarke a brandy snifter. Raising his own, he said, "To your health."

Without responding in kind, Roarke asked coolly, "Exactly why did you want to see me, Mr. Ducette?"

Ducette put down his glass and lifted one of the swords, bending it experimentally. "I thought that would have been obvious by now."

"Obvious?" Roarke repeated, his tone quietly ominous. "The only thing that is obvious is that Mrs. Walgren is no match for you. You're the world's fencing champion, and yet you deliberately let her win."

Ducette nodded faintly. "Two hundred years ago, it would have meant something to be the greatest fencer in the world. Today, it's meaningless. Soon, I will be too old for competition. I have hundreds of medals, but no money." Roarke's stance relaxed slightly and he nodded in apparent understanding. "Forgive me," Ducette concluded, "but I want—I _need_—that million-dollar bounty, and I'm willing to kill you to get it."

Roarke regarded him for only a second before putting down the snifter. "I am in no mood to play games, Mr. Ducette." He started out of the clearing.

"Roarke," Ducette called, and Roarke paused, giving the man a questioning look. Ducette tossed a saber at him, which he managed to catch by the handle, and said, "Don't walk out on me now. It would take all the fun out of this."

Resigned, his expression icy, Roarke slowly removed his tuxedo jacket and tossed it aside, then loosened his bow tie and threw it to the edge of the clearing with a sharp movement that betrayed his simmering anger. Ducette gave an odd little grin of anticipation and began to circle, preparatory to the first thrust; Roarke moved correspondingly, releasing the top two buttons of his shirt. He finally stopped and lifted the sword. _"En garde,"_ he said.

Ducette touched his blade to his forehead and replied, _"À morte_…to the death." And the battle was on.

Inside the building Tattoo murmured, "What's taking so long?" Leslie shrugged, her eyes on the door through which Roarke had exited, till a movement attracted her attention and she watched Vanessa Walgren leave through a side door.

Something in the way the woman walked, some odd purpose to her step, set off an alarm in Leslie and she touched Tattoo's shoulder. "Tattoo, did you see…"

"Yes, I did," Tattoo said, scowling. "Come on, we'd better go see what's happening."

They came upon a sight that halted them at the edge of the clearing; the swordfight was fast and furious, and it was fairly clear that Roarke had the upper hand at the moment, even if only because he was literally fighting for his life. Apparently too frustrated to assure a fair win for himself, Ducette reached behind his back and tugged a knife out from under his shirt. Standing at their left, at the end of another trail, was Vanessa, whose fanatical whisper of "Kill him, now!" was audible to them. Tattoo's eyes widened with horror.

"Stay here," he muttered to Leslie. "I'm going for help." He turned and fled in the direction they had come; Leslie found herself gawking at the grisly scene playing itself out before her, unable to move or look away.

Ducette brought his left hand out from behind his back and made a desperate thrust at Roarke's abdomen. Roarke caught his wrist and arrested the motion before it hit home, mustered a desperate burst of strength and somehow threw the man off. Now with his long wicked knife firmly pointed at Roarke, Ducette resumed the rhythmic thrust-and-parry of all sword matches, giving Roarke a chance to regroup slightly.

But Ducette wouldn't give up. Once more he brought Roarke to a standstill, forcing Roarke's fencing arm high in the air, and jabbed again with the knife. Roarke caught the movement as before, but Leslie could see the men's wrists shaking with their respective efforts and clutched the trunk of a nearby tree to stay on her feet.

Ducette put extra power into his push and overcame Roarke for just a split second, but that was long enough for the blade to tear a small but bloody hole in Roarke's side. Nausea overwhelmed Leslie and she was forced to battle it back with repeated, frantic gulps, which at least kept her too busy to scream and thus perhaps fatally distract her guardian.

Roarke's rage and desperation grew in tandem and he twisted in such a way that the knife escaped Ducette's hand and fell to the grass. Not ten seconds later, Roarke sent his opponent's blade flying from his other hand and instantly pressed his advantage, backing Ducette to the edge of the clearing.

Providentially, Tattoo returned exactly then with two members of the island's police force. The lawmen took over and Roarke finally was able to lower the sword and relax his stance. Tattoo said, "Boss, I'll make sure he leaves the island right away. Take him away!" The cops dragged Ducette with them down the nearest path, and Leslie bounded into the clearing, too intent on her guardian to notice Vanessa still looking on.

"Boss, are you okay?" Tattoo asked anxiously. Breathing a little heavily and holding his left arm against his side in an unnatural way, Roarke nodded and handed Tattoo his sword, then went to confront Vanessa.

"Please," he said, quietly but urgently, "stop this while you still can, before it turns on you, hurts you."

"I've already been hurt," Vanessa retorted frigidly. "I don't have any feelings left."

"Oh, I believe you have. Very deep feelings."

She glared at him, frustration putting some heat into her eyes. "Stop acting like a saint," she said disgustedly. "You're not a saint, you're just a man." She glanced down, lifted Roarke's arm away from his side and raised knowing eyes to his. "You bleed, Mr. Roarke. And if you can bleed, you can also die." She held his stare for one long moment before turning and stalking away. Slowly Roarke lifted his hand, stared at the blood that trickled down toward his wrist, and then at its source, a dazed look about him.

"Mr. Roarke?" he heard Leslie's tentative voice, and blinked once or twice to see her and Tattoo standing in front of him, anxiety making road maps of their faces. He stared back and forth between them, feeling strange and faraway somehow.

"Don't you think we should take him to the hospital?" Tattoo hinted strongly.

Leslie started, brought to sudden attention, and nodded hard. "I'll drive," she said, badly frightened at the look on Roarke's face. "I think he's in shock."

But Roarke, focusing on her, shook his head firmly, restoring some semblance of reality, reassuming his calm and gathering his dignity about him. "No, that won't be necessary. Just take Tattoo home and then we'll go back to the main house, Leslie. It's only a surface wound." At this her face cleared and she released a deep sigh of relief.

"But you're bleeding like crazy!" Tattoo protested.

"Superficial flesh wounds bleed a lot, Tattoo," Leslie said, surprising both him and Roarke with her knowledge. "My sister Kelly was constantly getting scraped up, and she used to bleed all over the place, but when Mom got it cleaned up it always turned out to be something minor. Does it hurt a lot, Mr. Roarke?"

"Oh, I expect I'll be sore in that spot for some time to come," Roarke admitted, pressing his hand gingerly against the area and wincing slightly. "But there's no real damage. Come, now, we're through here for tonight. Tattoo, my friend, please don't keep yourself awake the entire night fretting. All three of us will need to be alert and refreshed for tomorrow, and lack of sleep is not at all conducive to that."

"I'll try, boss, but you know how I am," Tattoo said, finally getting a faint smile from Roarke. "Okay, let's go home, and Leslie, you take good care of him."

She grinned suddenly. "Depends on what kind of patient he is," she quipped, and they shared a quiet laugh. "I could use some sleep, and I know you could, Mr. Roarke."

By the time she had helped Roarke clean and bandage the small wound, she had grown pensive again and stopped her guardian in the upstairs hallway. "I'm starting to think Vanessa Walgren is a little disturbed in the head, just like that Frank Barton," she told him. "She's so cold to you…no sympathy at all. And you know, she seems a bit like a coward to me. She's willing to pay others to do her own dirty work."

Roarke decided it might be a good time for that discussion he'd mentioned that morning. He reached out and combed back her hair in a very fatherly gesture that made her smile; then he inquired, "Tell me something, Leslie, what exactly are your feelings toward her?"

She stared at him, plainly brought up short by the question. After some consideration, she admitted, "My off-the-cuff answer was going to be hatred—sheer, overwhelming hatred and fury at her for what she's trying to do to you. But I suppose that'd be stooping to her level, wouldn't it?" Her gaze broke and she stared into space, thinking; knowing her last question had been rhetorical, Roarke waited patiently.

Finally Leslie confessed, "I told her yesterday that if she managed to kill you, I was going to put a bounty on her head so she'd see what it felt like. I guess that was pretty stupid." She waited, but he remained silent, and at last she ventured to look up. "But I don't think it affected her one bit. In fact, she probably laughed her head off when we were gone. What's a seventeen-year-old girl gonna do to her?"

"That seventeen-year-old was showing her love and loyalty, that's all," Roarke said gently. "There is still a ferocious anger in you, Leslie, and I believe that what fueled your outburst yesterday can be traced to something that lies much deeper within you, something you still aren't ready to face."

"You mean…how I feel about Michael Hamilton?" she asked.

He nodded. "I truly do understand your anger and resentment of Mrs. Walgren, and yes, your fear of her as well. She does present the façade of a cold and unfeeling woman, but it's a front; she is acting out of enormous grief and rage. Such emotions can drive us to do things we would normally never consider."

"But she's letting it get out of her control," Leslie reflected, and caught his approving nod. "I guess we're all going to have some battle scars by the time this weekend is over."

"Both inside and out," Roarke agreed wryly, glancing at his bandage, and he and Leslie both laughed softly. "Enough for now. Let's get some sleep, and perhaps tomorrow will make things seem a little better."


	17. Chapter 17

§ § § -- March 13, 1983

There was a brunch banquet being held late Sunday morning; by eleven it had been under way for more than half an hour, and for the most part people had eaten and now took to chatting in pairs or groups. It was a quiet affair, since it was intended only for those who were involved with the pentathlon. Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie arrived fashionably late, and Tattoo steered Leslie off toward the buffet to peruse the selections while Roarke sought out a pensive Vanessa Walgren, who stood off alone at the edge of the clearing.

She started slightly when she saw him and managed little more than a very fast smile of obligatory greeting. Roarke nodded back, then said gently, "You were thinking about your husband, weren't you?"

Vanessa's face began to crumple, and she turned away from him before she could break down in front of him. "I should have come here with him," she said, before her anger took over again and she turned around with another of her endless supply of accusing glares. "But I don't blame myself, Mr. Roarke. I'd never let you off the hook that easily."

"Will revenge bring him back to you?" Roarke asked.

"There wasn't even a body I could bury," she said. "I have to do something!"

Roarke nodded, his own mien frosting over. "In that case, may I ask how many more of these attempts I am going to have to face?"

"Just one," she said. "But I'm going to make it easy on you. I'm going to offer you a more personal challenge. You'll be able to judge the skydiving event much better from up there. Why don't you jump with us this afternoon? With me?"

Roarke looked into the clear morning sky for a moment, then studied her; they seemed at an impasse. He knew what Tattoo and Leslie would say when they found out about this one, but he saw no way out of it. Had he not agreed to grant the woman's fantasy? He had locked himself into this thing and there was no escape till it ended.

So, with the hour going on three o'clock, Roarke and Leslie drove out to the small airport on the island's southwestern edge, where conventional land-only craft landed and took off. Tattoo had already gone out there to get Roarke's gear ready for the event. Leslie was very quiet, a faint frown on her features and her mouth set in a grim line. Roarke glanced at her from time to time as he drove, but respected her silence till they reached their destination. Then, once they had parked the car and were headed towards the control tower where Tattoo waited for them, Leslie said, "I really don't like this one, Mr. Roarke. I'm afraid that once she gets you away from where we can see you, she'll take advantage."

Roarke stopped in his tracks and eyed her. "If that is a hint to take you up in that airplane," he said, "the answer is no."

"Good," Leslie retorted emphatically. "There is no way on this earth you'll ever talk me into skydiving. If I get on a plane, I stay on it till it's back on terra firma."

Roarke blinked, then laughed. "Well, that was easy," he teased her. "Perhaps it will make you feel better to know that there will be binoculars available to the spectators."

"Well, I suppose that helps, but I still don't like this," Leslie said. "Besides, even with binoculars, there'd be no stopping her from trying to pull some trick. Do you really think she'll give up after this one? She's just the type to keep on trying."

"Mrs. Walgren herself said it's the last challenge," Roarke said. "And you'll recall that it's Sunday afternoon. If her goal is not realized by this evening, she will be forced to give up because her fantasy will be over. Just stay with Tattoo and wait."

Thirty minutes later, the skydivers' plane was in the air and circling the island to gain enough altitude for the dive. For the moment Tattoo and Leslie just watched its progress each time it made a pass over the airfield. They had both long since admitted to each other that they had replicas of the skydiving plane zipping around in their stomachs, but knowing they weren't alone in this feeling was no consolation whatsoever to either of them.

Far above them in the plane's cabin, Roarke turned to Vanessa, seated next to him in the cramped space. "Mrs. Walgren, are you certain you want to go through with this?"

She only looked at him, then said briskly, "See you on the ground, Mr. Roarke," and with that launched herself out of the plane. He watched her plummet towards the ground, frowning slightly. Several thousand feet below, the pilot's voice emanated from the nearby control tower, announcing that Vanessa had begun her descent. Tattoo and Leslie, along with the other spectators, lifted their binoculars to watch, half listening to the comments of the judges nearby. After a couple of minutes Vanessa pulled her ripcord and her chute billowed out; before long she hit the ground smack on target.

Roarke, watching from the open cabin door, took his turn; from the ground they could just see him emerge, and the binoculars went up again. Tattoo muttered now and then in his native tongue; Leslie couldn't understand, but she could tell from his tone that the comments weren't happy ones. She herself was too busy swallowing back some newly awakened abdominal pterodactyls to say anything, and merely monitored her guardian's descent as closely as she could.

Above them, Roarke reached the point in his fall where he must deploy his chute, and reached for the ripcord to pull it—only to find it wouldn't budge. Twice he tried, but it seemed inextricably glued to the fabric of the suit he wore. On the ground, Leslie could just make out his movements and realized what the problem was; she sucked in her breath but dared not lower the binoculars, as if taking her eyes off him would somehow change the outcome of the conundrum. This afforded her a great relief when she saw him tug on the carefully concealed cord attached to his backup parachute, which ballooned out at an altitude that was visible even to those without binoculars. She heard Tattoo's loud sigh beside her, and they looked at each other and smiled broadly.

"Did you see how he couldn't get the main chute to work? I wonder what happened," she said and shot a glance back toward Vanessa Walgren, who wore a frustrated look as she stared into the sky.

"Yeah," said Tattoo and scowled. "I'll bet _she's_ responsible." He jabbed a thumb over one shoulder at Vanessa as he said the italicized word. He frowned suddenly, as if hit by a memory. "I was guarding the boss's suit when she came in to check out her stuff, and then she said it was hot and fainted. I went to get her a glass of water."

"She probably faked it and sabotaged Mr. Roarke's ripcord while you were gone," Leslie speculated, disgusted. "Can't she see that what she's trying to do makes her the same kind of murderer she thinks Mr. Roarke is? How dumb can you be?" Tattoo just shrugged; around them applause welled up and they both shifted their attention just in time to see Roarke hit the ground precisely on target, instantly removing his helmet when he touched down.

He smiled at Leslie and Tattoo as he passed them, going directly to Vanessa Walgren. "Well, Mrs. Walgren, I believe congratulations are in order." She had been the only contestant to complete the pentathlon, even though she hadn't won all five competitions.

Champagne bottle in hand, she remarked, "You seem to be indestructible, Mr. Roarke. Congratulations to you too." She smiled slightly. "I think this calls for our own private toast, don't you?" She poured champagne into a glass for him.

"Then, uh…it's over?" Roarke inquired cautiously.

"Not quite. You see these two glasses? One of them has been poisoned." Her words were just loud enough for Tattoo and Leslie to hear; Roarke saw them both turn to stare. Vanessa, unaware she was being drilled by two pairs of angrily glittering eyes, lifted the glasses and concluded, "Just to show you I'm still a good sport, I'll let you choose. Which is yours?"

Roarke eyed her, the glasses, the liquid within. Then he said firmly, "Neither. The game is over." Tattoo and Leslie glanced fleetingly at each other with relief.

"All right." Her voice grew cold. "If you won't play, then I will." She glanced back and forth between the two glasses, lifted one to her lips and stilled it just before taking a sip. Roarke stood and watched her calmly. She lowered the first glass, raised the second one and this time made a decisive move to drink.

At the very last second before the rim contacted her lips, Roarke grabbed her arm and yanked it down, sending the champagne spilling to the table and the glass to the ground, where it shattered. She struggled in his grip. "Let go of me!"

"Mrs. Walgren," Roarke snapped insistently, "listen to me—_listen to me!_ Your husband is alive!"

For a long moment she stared at him, as if trying to decide whether to believe him; then she yanked her arms out of his grasp and cried, "Don't do this to me!" She half ran toward the nearby trees at the far end of the airfield, but slowed and stopped, hands over her face, shaking visibly.

Roarke followed her and turned her to face him. "He's alive," he reiterated quietly.

"What do you mean?" she finally demanded.

"Michael Walgren only poses as a tennis pro," Roarke told her. "His real work is for the government as an undercover agent."

"He used to work for them," Vanessa contradicted angrily. "He gave it up years ago!"

"No." Roarke sighed and let her loose, turned away and studied the tree nearby. "No. He tried, but they came back to him. They needed him for one more assignment. He was the only one with the connections to carry it through…only, it blew up in his face. He knew he'd have to go into hiding, perhaps for the rest of his life. He didn't want that for you."

"I don't understand that," Vanessa protested. "Why didn't Michael tell me?"

"If you had known, it would have put you in danger. Through your position, they could have gotten to you—used you to get to him. He thought it would be better if everyone—yes, even you—thought he was dead."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" she asked, stunned; he could see in her face that she was accepting the truth of his story.

Roarke said simply, "I promised Michael never to reveal that his fantasy here was a sham."

She began to shake her head. "Mr. Roarke, please don't—"

"Also," Roarke interrupted with a slow smile, "I needed time to arrange for that." He pointed to an approaching black limousine that came to a halt some distance away; the back doors opened, and from one of them emerged the very man in the photograph that Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie had first seen in Vanessa's bungalow. She gawked, then looked at Roarke, who said, "Go to him." It was all she needed, and she ran to the man, framed his face in her hands, touched him, and at last threw her arms around him. Tattoo and Leslie had seen the entire thing, but not heard Roarke's explanation to Vanessa; and now they joined him in watching the reunion, faces alive with questions.

"Boss, what's going on? He looks like her husband!" Tattoo exclaimed.

Roarke smiled. "It's a long story, Tattoo. Fortunately it has a very happy ending." They gazed at the embracing Walgrens, who in turn smiled back at them.

§ § § -- March 14, 1983

Vanessa Walgren's departure from the island was a much happier and more relaxed event than her arrival; her face was much gentler now, wreathed as it was in smiles. "Mr. Roarke, I can't find the words to thank you," she said, with true gratitude in her voice. "I hope you'll forgive me."

"You can thank me by staying safe and well," Roarke said simply, smiling back.

"Excuse me," Tattoo broke in, "but where's Mr. Walgren?"

She smiled. "I don't know, Tattoo, but I'll be with him tomorrow morning. As soon as I get to the mainland, there'll be someone waiting to take me there."

Roarke smiled again. "When all this is over, I hope you and Mr. Walgren will come back and spend a real vacation with us."

"We will, Mr. Roarke, that's a promise." She shook hands with him and said her goodbyes, bid the same to Tattoo and then hesitated in front of a sheepish-looking Leslie.

Leslie gathered her courage and spoke before she could chicken out or Vanessa could beat her to the punch. "I just…I just want to say, I'm sorry about what I said—"

"Never mind, Leslie," Vanessa said warmly. "You were provoked. Mr. Roarke told me a little about how you came to live here and what's been happening in the last year or so that drove you to say it, and I understand completely. I'll forgive you if you'll forgive me."

Leslie grinned with relief. "Consider it done. We'll look forward to seeing you and Mr. Walgren back here soon."

"So will we. Till then." Vanessa smiled again, then took her leave, pausing as most folks did for a final wave before boarding the charter.

Leslie looked at her guardian then and admitted, "You know, Mr. Roarke, you were right. I do feel a lot better now. Thanks for making me apologize."

Roarke gave her a mildly surprised look, and Tattoo laughed. _"Making_ you apologize? You mean if the boss hadn't threatened you with bodily harm, you still wouldn't have done it, even after you found out the whole story about Mr. Walgren?"

She assumed a mock-haughty look. "For your information, Mr. Roarke persuaded me to apologize _before_ he told us Mr. Walgren's real story. So there." She sniffed loudly and exaggeratedly and stuck her nose in the air, making her guardian and his assistant start to laugh; she joined in, mutual relief making all three of them feel much better.

Tom Vale, their New Jersey guest, stepped out of the next car, accompanied by a classically beautiful brunette named Abby Monroe. "Well, Mr. Vale," Roarke inquired, "are you ready to go back to Wall Street?"

"No, I still have one performance to give," Vale began.

"Not as a headliner, surely," said Roarke in surprise.

"No, as a fiancé. We're gonna stop off in Toledo so I can meet her parents," Vale explained, slipping his arm around Abby's shoulders as she grinned.

As Roarke offered congratulations, Abby put out her hand. "Mr. Roarke, I want to thank you."

"It was my pleasure, Miss Monroe," Roarke assured her with a smile.

Then Tattoo spoke up: "Does that mean you're not gonna be stripping anymore?" That got him a quelling look from Roarke and a disgusted eye-roll from Leslie.

But Abby just grinned at him and said impishly, "Not really. It just means I've got a smaller audience." They all burst out laughing, and amid a flurry of handshakes, thank-yous and goodbyes, the couple started for the plane. At the last second Abby paused in front of Tattoo, gave him the garter she held, and kissed his cheek. They watched Vale and Abby head for the plane and returned their waves; Tattoo used the hand that held the garter and unwittingly flapped it almost directly in Roarke's face, getting a stifled laugh from Abby before she and Vale retreated inside the plane. Leslie belatedly saw what was happening and hissed, "Tattoo!"

Tattoo started, realized what he was doing, lowered his arm and gave Roarke a startled look, only to receive a dirty one back from his boss. Leslie grinned and reached out to pluck the garter from Tattoo's grasp, but he was too quick for her and whipped his hand behind his back. Roarke's brows shot up and she gave him a shrug, saying, "I tried." Roarke grinned at that, while Tattoo just rolled his eyes, to Leslie's delight.

§ § § -- July 4, 2006

"Do you ever get the feeling that too many people out there hate you, Mr. Roarke?" Christian kidded, and they laughed.

Roarke nodded through his amusement. "Leslie certainly seemed to think so, as you'll recall from the diatribe she told you about. Tattoo thought her justified, and given time to look back on it, I myself could hardly blame her. Being marked for death can be quite wearying, I must admit."

"Not that you'd know," Leslie shot back, to more laughter. "Speaking of death…there's one lost weekend I think I'd rather forget. Tattoo's car accident, and how he married Solange and left the island shortly afterward. My high-school graduation that spring wasn't the totally happy event I'd been anticipating throughout my senior year."

"But Tattoo didn't die," Julie protested. "At least not then."

"No, but he almost did," Leslie informed her, registering her complete surprise. "What, you didn't know?" Julie shook her head. "Well, in that case…"

§ § § -- May 7, 1983

Roarke and Leslie walked out onto the porch, into another sunny, beautiful Saturday. Leslie had a particular excitement about her that had set in at the beginning of the month: her graduation from high school was imminent, and as the date drew nearer, she seemed to get emotionally higher and higher. Moreover, she had just celebrated her eighteenth birthday the previous day, so she was in very good spirits this morning. "Where's Tattoo?" she asked curiously.

"I'm not sure," Roarke said, checking his watch. "He should have been here by now. Oh, Nuala, excuse me…" He stopped one of the native girls on her way to the plane dock. "Have you seen Tattoo?"

"Good morning, Mr. Roarke, Miss Leslie. He took some presents to the orphanage," Nuala explained. "He said he'd be right back."

"Oh, I see. Thank you." Nuala nodded and jogged away, and Roarke took another look at his watch. Leslie took stock of the peaceful morning; several doves roosted in a large bush beside the steps, and staff members moved back and forth along the lane, most with somewhere to go, others simply out strolling.

Just then there came the distant screech of tires and the roar of a small engine, and they both peered down the lane. Sure enough, Tattoo's car hove into sight, gaining the lane from within the nearby jungle; a group of natives standing at the side of the road waved at him and he waved back. They heard the engine surge again as Tattoo applied the accelerator, at the same time turning to return someone else's wave of greeting—and just at that moment two children from the fishing village came around a bend in the lane, right in Tattoo's path. Leslie let out a gasp and Roarke called out sharply, "Tattoo! Look out!"

What happened next went so fast that all Roarke and Leslie could do was stand and stare helplessly. Tattoo hit the brakes, but it had always been his habit to drive too fast, and he was going at too much speed to get complete control over the car. The children screamed and dove for cover as he tried to swerve around them; the car sailed off the lane, rocketed up and over a large flat rock with a slanted surface, and went airborne for a heartstopping two seconds that seemed to last three centuries, overturning as it did so and finally landing with a sickening crash on the driver's side.

Simultaneously Roarke called Tattoo's name and Leslie shrieked, _"Nooooo!!"_ They both broke into a frantic run; Leslie, slightly ahead of Roarke, reached the car first, while a crowd of alarmed natives and tourists gathered rapidly around them. Roarke knelt beside Leslie and reached out to Tattoo, who lay half in and half out of the car, unconscious and with a nasty gash oozing blood from his forehead.

"Tattoo," Roarke said urgently, brushing Tattoo's thick black hair away from the wound. "Tattoo?" He didn't stir, and Roarke looked up at the nearest person, who happened to be Nuala. "Get an ambulance, quickly," he directed, and Nuala got up and fled.

Leslie was too stunned yet to do more than stare at Roarke with shock in her eyes. He turned to her, as if feeling her gaze, and she said in a tiny voice, "I told him he drove too fast. I told him he had to…" The words broke her fragile control and she broke down into terrified sobs; Roarke drew her in against him, gazing in worry and fear at Tattoo.

"This is an emergency," he said at last, forcibly gathering himself, voice clipped and staccato with emotion. "It's unthinkable that we go on as usual this weekend. Leslie and I are going straight to the hospital, and I expect we will be there for the duration, however long that may last. So Mahi'ai, you and Kalena greet the guests and explain the problem. Malana, please inform Mariki that she won't be needed at the main house today, and have her assist Jean-Claude at the hotel." He gave several other rapid instructions, and the staff nodded assent and scattered.

"What's happening?" Leslie managed to ask through her tears.

"Tattoo's condition takes precedence over everything else," Roarke said. "We'll postpone the fantasies for this weekend and stay with him."


	18. Chapter 18

§ § § -- May 7, 1983

They reached the hospital just before Tattoo's ambulance arrived, and found themselves detained in the waiting room by the admissions nurse, who offered coffee or some other beverage. They both declined, taking seats and trying to calm themselves down. There followed a long wait during which some of the resort employees gathered in the waiting room with them, as if keeping them company. One of the guests came by and spoke with Roarke about rescheduling his fantasy for later that summer; Roarke set up an appointment to see him in his office before lapsing back into a pensive silence.

Then a pair of double doors swung open and both stood up, anxiously watching a nurse and two orderlies wheel Tattoo through on a stretcher. He was now awake but groggy; still, he recognized Roarke and Leslie as he was wheeled past them and raised one hand in a feeble wave. Roarke returned it, and Leslie, following the stretcher, managed to catch Tattoo's hand for just a moment before it was pushed into a room and he slipped out of reach.

The attending doctor, a man named Phillips, paused in the hallway, watching the stretcher vanish; then he turned to Roarke, who had come in after Leslie. "How is he, doctor?" Roarke wanted to know, pulling Leslie close when she huddled by his side.

"Well, we just ran some tests. We can't be certain till I study the results." He placed a hand on Roarke's shoulder and guided him down the hallway, farther away from the door to the waiting room. "But some of the symptoms indicate that the injury is really serious."

Leslie's hand went to her mouth; Roarke's eyes lit with alarm and he stopped. "Serious? How serious?"

"Well, as I just said, I don't know. I wish I could be more reassuring, but I can't."

"Has he been told?" Roarke asked.

"No. We want to keep his morale as high as possible. Until we figure out what this problem is, we want to keep him awake, so we can observe his condition in case there's any change." Roarke nodded understanding. "We could use your help on that." To their surprise, Dr. Phillips winked at Leslie.

"Oh, of course, of course," Roarke agreed instantly, squeezing her for reassurance. "May we see him now?"

Dr. Phillips nodded. "Come on." He led them into Tattoo's hospital room, where a nurse was taking his temperature. He was awake and lucid, and grinned when he saw them, to their relief. They greeted one another and the nurse removed the thermometer from his mouth so he could speak normally.

"What are you two doing here? You're supposed to attend to the guests."

"Oh no, no, I canceled all fantasies until you are able to help me again," Roarke told him. "Leslie here is afraid that without you to let her know where she's going wrong, she will somehow ruin everyone's vacation." He winked at his ward.

Leslie took her cue from him. "Can't run a machine without a missing part, and you're one of the most essential pieces."

Dr. Phillips approached the bed then. "Hello again, Tattoo. I'm gonna take another look at your eyes, if you don't mind." He pulled out a small penlight, and Roarke and Leslie moved aside to make room, watching him.

"Be my guest," murmured Tattoo weakly. Behind the doctor's back, Leslie shot Roarke a fast, worried glance; he smiled and nodded reassurance. But even his good humor faded when Dr. Phillips tucked away the light and looked up with a distinctly grim expression on his face.

"Keep him awake and talking," Dr. Phillips muttered to Roarke as he slipped past and left the room; Leslie stared after him, but Roarke wasted no time letting on to his assistant that anything was unusual.

As Tattoo winced and lifted a hand to his bandaged head, Roarke asked, "Tattoo, how do you feel? Are you cold? Perhaps I should get you a blanket."

"No, I'm okay, boss, I'm okay. Are you and Leslie staying here?"

"Of course, Tattoo, of course." Roarke smiled warmly and Leslie hurriedly nodded her head, trying to play along and fearing Tattoo suspected she was only putting up a front.

"We wouldn't leave you here all by yourself," she said and peered at Roarke, adding, "Anyway, it's pretty hot in here to need a blanket."

Tattoo smiled and concurred, "Besides, this is Fantasy Island, and the weather's always perfect."

"Well, that's not necessarily true," Roarke observed, glancing at Leslie with a smile. "Don't you remember the day when a certain young lady came here hoping to meet the man of her dreams?"

"Oh sure," said Tattoo, "and he turned out to be a genie."

"Oh yeah—the one who conjured up that snowstorm." Leslie laughed softly. "I'll never forget that."

"I won't either, not after watching you dancing and playing around in it like you were about three years old again. I never saw you like that—I thought you went crazy." Tattoo grinned.

"I kind of did," she admitted good-naturedly. "But you know I have happy memories of snow."

Roarke nodded and strolled to the window, looking out as if he expected more of it. "Everything was covered in it. I must have received three dozen complaints that afternoon. Of course, Leslie wasn't the only one who appeared to have gone a little snow-happy. As I recall, the next thing I knew, you were hurrying into my office, all set for winter."

"Yeah, I guess I did," Tattoo said and chuckled. Just then the nurse returned and set about taking Tattoo's blood pressure, earning a look askance from him. "Robin, this is the fifth time you're doing this. Come on," he protested.

"Why, Tattoo," Roarke teased, "a beautiful woman is attending to you and you're complaining? Why, that's not like you."

"You know, I didn't see it that way," Tattoo said thoughtfully, and they all laughed, even the nurse. They continued calling up their favorite memories of fantasies while Robin finished her administrations and hung up the sphygmomanometer; but Roarke and Leslie were a little startled when she too departed with a grim look about her. She passed Dr. Phillips on her way out, and all three of them looked expectantly at him.

"Well, hello," he said cheerily. "Have a seat. Well, time is critical, so I'll get right to the point. The head CT scan we did shows an epidural hematoma compressing the brain tissue." Tattoo made a face of incomprehension, and Roarke frowned with concern and leaned forward. Leslie scowled, with only a vague understanding of what was wrong, but sure it was quite bad. Her feelings seemed to be confirmed when Dr. Phillips concluded, "It requires immediate surgical evacuation." 

That brought Roarke out of his chair altogether. He and Tattoo looked at each other, then at Leslie, who had a hand at her throat on its way to her mouth. Tattoo still looked blank, so Dr. Phillips explained, "In other words, Tattoo, we're going to have to operate."

This Tattoo did understand, and his face filled with horror. He shot another glance at Roarke, then watched Leslie get to her feet. She came to Roarke, who put an arm around her and reached out to pat Tattoo's, perhaps as much for his own reassurance as for theirs. Leslie twisted in Roarke's embrace to face Dr. Phillips and asked, "When are you planning to have the operation?"

"This evening. Don't worry, Leslie, I see no reason to believe that Tattoo should do anything but come through with flying colors." He smiled at them and left the room, with Leslie staring after him.

Suddenly Tattoo spoke up from the bed: "Boss, I have an idea…"

Roarke turned and settled down on the side of the bed, with Leslie hovering behind him and watching Tattoo over his shoulder. "What?" he inquired indulgently.

"Why don't you give me a fantasy so that they don't have to operate on me?" The question made Leslie lean over Roarke's shoulder with her hands on his arms, peering hopefully at him; Roarke aimed his regretful smile at them both.

"Oh, if only I could do that, Tattoo. But your accident is part of the past; even I can't change that. Therefore, the operation must be performed, don't you see?"

"Then…why don't you make it so that I'm not so scared?" Tattoo countered.

"Well," Roarke said thoughtfully, "perhaps we can keep your mind on more pleasant things, huh?" He addressed Leslie with the interrogative, and she nodded; so began another hour or so of reminiscing, looking back and laughing. At times they delved into events that had happened before Leslie had come to the island; for instance, once Tattoo asked out of the blue, "You remember the great song-and-dance team that gave a once-in-a-lifetime performance here?"

"Uh…" Roarke thought back, put a hand to his forehead and finally shook his head. "Not offhand, no. To whom are you referring?"

Tattoo was beaming. "Boss, it was you and me!"

Roarke's expression cleared and he laughed. "Ah yes…yes indeed."

"I don't get it," Leslie said, tilting her head at them in bewilderment. "When did that happen? I don't remember seeing you sing and dance at all!"

"It was several months before you arrived on the island, Leslie," Roarke explained. "As a matter of fact, if memory serves, it was just at the time the lawyer who read your mother's will wrote his letter explaining your situation to me. Tattoo had insisted on granting a fantasy on his own, and chose one in which two young ladies wanted to fall in love with and marry millionaires. Instead, they fell for a pair of struggling young writers trying to complete the song and story for a new stage musical that Tattoo was directing. Tattoo wrote a little number of his own to contribute to the show, but somehow it got left out, and he was quite disappointed at this."

"So what was the song?" Leslie asked with interest.

Roarke cleared his throat slightly, looking oddly hesitant; but Tattoo, beaming, filled her in. "It was called 'Nothing Hurts Like Love'," he told her. "It was a great number…I still don't understand how it got left out of the show."

"Well, how did it go?" Leslie persisted.

"Perhaps," Roarke suggested, "we should take a cue from Tattoo's initial reference to this memory and recall that it was a once-in-a-lifetime performance, hm?"

"Aw, boss," Tattoo said, rolling his eyes. To Leslie he said, "It was about how you can feel pain from a knife in the back, an ankle sprain and a concussion, but not one of those can hurt as bad as love can."

Leslie blinked and looked at Roarke. "Oh. And you performed this for…?"

"Nobody," Tattoo admitted, "but that was okay. The boss was a really good sport about it, and he really did it well."

"Despite the fact that at the end, when we removed our hats," Roarke reminded him, "somehow yours managed to find its way in front of my face."

Leslie rocked back and burst out laughing, which finally evoked a smile from Roarke. It was good medicine for Tattoo, even if he himself preferred to tuck that little recollection far away. He caught Leslie around the waist and patted Tattoo's shoulder again, chuckling helplessly and shaking his head.

Dr. Phillips checked in on them long enough to suggest that Roarke and Leslie break for some lunch, since the nurses wanted to check Tattoo over anyway and see how well he was holding up. With some reluctance, they left him, promising they'd return, and had lunch at the hotel, where they were accosted repeated by employees asking about Tattoo. As a result of Roarke's repeated assurances and explanations, it took them almost ninety minutes to finish their meal, by which time Leslie was very anxious.

On their way back to the hospital, they were waylaid by Maureen, on her way to Michiko's house. "Hey, what happened? I just heard from my mother that the weekend luau's been canceled."

"Tattoo had a car accident and he's in the hospital," Leslie explained hastily. "We're just going back there now. They're operating on him tonight."

Maureen gasped. "Oh my God! How bad was he hurt?"

"They say he has a…" Leslie hesitated and eyed Roarke.

"An epidural hematoma," Roarke supplied. "Unfortunately, due to a concussion, he must be kept awake as much as possible, and we have been trying to keep his spirits up at the doctor's request. It doesn't appear that his life is in danger, but the doctor is worried about morale."

"Which means we have to get back and do our part," Leslie concluded.

"Oh my God," Maureen said again. "Oh, I'm really sorry. I hope he comes through and that he gets well really fast. Wow, no wonder things have been canceled. Even the fantasies, Mr. Roarke?"

"Even the fantasies," Roarke confirmed with a nod. "Thank you for your warm wishes, Maureen."

She smiled. "I'll tell our other friends. Just let Tattoo know we're all rooting for him." She gave Leslie a quick pat on the arm and hurried off in the direction she had come from.

They returned to Tattoo's room in time to see him blinking from what appeared to have been a short nap. "You weren't supposed to be asleep," Leslie scolded. "Good thing we finally got back. We met Maureen on the way back here and she said to tell you she and all my other friends are rooting for you."

Tattoo smiled at her rapid-fire delivery. "Thanks, Leslie." His gaze shifted to Roarke, who stood looking on with a wistful little smile, and he glanced back and forth between the two a couple of times. "Boss, you're scared too, aren't you? I know Leslie is…she usually doesn't talk that fast."

"I, Tattoo? Scared?" Roarke riposted teasingly.

"Wait till you get up and around," Leslie threatened, shaking a finger at him, but with a twinkle in her eyes. "I'll get you for that."

Tattoo smiled. "You know, I'm glad you're both here. Real glad."

Roarke chuckled; he had been searching through his memory for another fantasy to recall, and now said, "Actually, you know, I was just recalling another one of our most colorful guests—Ned Plummer. Does that name ring a bell?"

"The guy who wanted to meet Kid Corey?" Tattoo said, grinning.

"You were in charge of that one, mostly," Leslie remembered.

"That's right," Roarke said. "Mr. Plummer believed that Kid Corey was one of the Old West's unsung heroes."

"Wasn't he in for a surprise, huh?" Tattoo chortled.

Roarke grinned back, nodding. "Oh, he was indeed. Yes, by the time Mr. Plummer was convinced his idol was nothing but a lying, cheating, no-good outlaw, it was too late! That scoundrel had tricked the entire town—including the sheriff—into thinking they were hanging Kid Corey, when it was actually only poor Mr. Plummer himself!"

They laughed softly. "I liked that fantasy," Tattoo murmured. Roarke nodded, and just then Robin the nurse entered, toting some suspicious-looking equipment. Tattoo eyed her warily. "Robin…are you gonna do what I think you're gonna be doing?"

"Come on, Tattoo, you'll hardly feel this at all," Robin assured him.

Leslie rolled her eyes at that. "That's what all nurses say," she scoffed, earning an amused look from Roarke. "They must teach you that in your very first nursing class."

"And we have to take a test on it too," kidded Robin, evoking laughter—until she brought out the syringe and they all had a good look at it. Even Roarke took a step back; Leslie gulped back a gasp, and Tattoo's eyes popped in horror.

"Robin, there's no way it's painless. Not with a needle that big," Tattoo protested. "It's impossible!"

"Impossible? Why, you enjoy the impossible!" Roarke said, pretending surprise. The needle went in then, provoking an _"Ow!"_ from Tattoo; Leslie squeezed her eyes shut and Roarke went right on talking. "It's your favorite kind of fantasy! Remember Charles Raines?"

"Oh yeah. The man who wanted to go back to Basin Street in New Orleans?"

"Yes…but to do that, he had to play the horn—something that, for him, _was_ impossible."

"And you gave him that magic horn," Leslie recalled.

Roarke nodded and smiled. "You have a good memory, Leslie. That was two years ago. Well." He noticed Tattoo cover a yawn, and cleared his throat when Robin cast them a look before packing up her paraphernalia and leaving. "Let me think, maybe you'll remember when the singer, Susan Lohmann, came to the island and met the famous composer, Edmond Dumont?"

They recalled a few more fantasies before noticing that Tattoo could no longer seem to stay awake, and Roarke finally turned to Leslie. "Let's let him rest for now, and I think you'd better try to get a little sleep as well. I know you won't sleep during his operation this evening."

"Yeah, I guess you're probably right," Leslie admitted sheepishly. She settled into one of a pair of white wicker chairs that sat near the windows, and Roarke found a nurse in the hall and managed to secure a pillow and blanket for her. For some time Roarke stood vigil over the two of them, alternately watching Tattoo's heart monitor and Leslie's head slipping farther and farther along the pillow toward the chair arm as sleep claimed her.

After a while, when Leslie was fairly deeply asleep, Roarke moved to the bedside, examined Tattoo with concern and quietly drew the blanket over him as he slept. Tacitly admitting to the fatigue he rarely, if ever, showed anyone else, he allowed himself to relax in the other chair and lifted a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes and preparing to rest as much as possible. But he had no sooner settled down than Tattoo suddenly mumbled something in a very weak voice. "Just listen to those birds sing…"

Roarke lifted his head in surprise, alert all over again. "Birds?"

"They're singing their hearts out, just like at your wedding," Tattoo said.

The memory slammed into Roarke with the force of a speeding express train and he glanced at Leslie, still asleep but stirring, as if Tattoo's voice had penetrated her subconscious and alerted her to his condition. "Perhaps we should talk about something else, Tattoo," he suggested quietly.

"Why?" Tattoo's voice dropped slightly in volume; he spoke with his eyes closed. "It was just beautiful, don't you remember?"

"Remember what?" murmured Leslie sleepily from the chair.

Roarke turned, hoping to spare her at least. "It's all right, Leslie, go back to sleep," he said gently.

But she sat up; something in his tone had alerted her. "I'm awake now. What's he talking about, Mr. Roarke?"

"The boss's wedding," Tattoo mumbled, a tiny smile on his face. Leslie got up and sat on the bed behind Roarke, who had moved there in the vain hope of preventing disturbing her, wrapping her arms around him from behind and laying her head on his shoulder. Roarke covered one of her hands with his, glancing away from Tattoo and toward the wall, his dark eyes losing focus as the memory took over in spite of his best intentions. No one spoke for a long five minutes.

Leslie was sure she felt a hitch in her guardian's breathing, just before he whispered at last, "Indeed I do remember." It seemed another of his classic understatements; how could he possibly forget Helena Marsh? She herself would never forget those short, sweet few days, and idly wondered what Jamie Marsh was doing right now. Probably studying medical texts, she imagined. She sighed softly; even three and a half years later, it was still a painful memory and one they never spoke of, yet for some reason Tattoo had brought it all back to the fore.

Then the door opened and Dr. Phillips entered with two orderlies who pushed a stretcher. Leslie sat up, and she and Roarke both rose from the bed and moved out of the way of the stretcher. "It's time," Dr. Phillips said.

Roarke, still shaken by the newly reawakened memory, began, "They—"

"Try not to worry," Dr. Phillips interrupted soothingly. "He'll be in good hands." Roarke glanced away, subsiding with a trace of reluctance, and watched along with Leslie as the orderlies lifted Tattoo onto the stretcher.

"We'll see you later, my friend," Roarke said softly.

"I hope so, boss," Tattoo murmured.

"We will," Leslie insisted, her voice breaking in the middle of the second word. She stared at him. "We will. We will, right, Mr. Roarke?"

"Of course we will," Roarke said softly. Together they watched the stretcher bearing Tattoo leave the room, feeling thoroughly helpless. Leslie looked hesitantly up at Roarke, just in time to see him glance up as if in pleading and actually bite his lip. His uncertainty ruined what was left of her composure and she turned to the window, brushing away tears, relaxing only when Roarke pulled her into a hug. They stood holding each other that way for a long time.


	19. Chapter 19

§ § § -- May 7-8, 1983

When a nurse gently shooed them out of Tattoo's room into the waiting room and persisted in getting them something to drink, they found themselves holding cups without quite recalling how it had happened. Roarke barely tasted the coffee he was drinking, and Leslie sipped absently at the glass of juice she had been given, but neither really noticed what they held. And they didn't say anything throughout, both lost in their own thoughts and worries.

Darkness gradually dropped, and through the early evening they found themselves greeting a steady stream of residents and resort staff, all stopping in to wish Tattoo well and many bearing cards for him. The Tokitas, McCormicks and Tomais were among those who came, and Myeko accompanied Michiko's family. Julie came sometime later with Frida and kept them company till about ten, when they departed, saying regretfully that they still had to worry about B&B guests. Leslie read every magazine in the waiting room that held any interest at all for her, and then got very bored; this eventually contributed to her falling asleep on Roarke's shoulder shortly before midnight.

Roarke found sleep unusually elusive, battling worry over Tattoo and the specter of the memories that had been stirred up just before he went into surgery. He wondered, with some bewilderment, what had made Tattoo bring up Helena and their short-lived marriage in the first place; he could only think that all their talk of past fantasies had somehow stirred up a lot of dust in the bottom of Tattoo's memory, and perhaps the pain he might have been feeling from his injury had pushed him to mention it. He just didn't know; all he could say for certain was that his own emotions were too stirred up by the recollections to allow him any sleep, and he found himself envying Leslie.

It was nearing one-thirty in the morning when his position grew too uncomfortable for him and he started to carefully disentangle himself from Leslie. His motions woke her all at once, and before he quite knew it, she had sat up and blurted out, "Any news?"

"Not yet," he said, "but I was just about to ask. Why don't you come with me."

The pretty half-Asian nurse on desk duty smiled at them when they approached, knowing what their question would be. Before either could speak, she said, "They'll be moving him out of recovery any time now, Mr. Roarke."

"Oh, thank you," he said, and at that precise moment the doors to the surgical ward swung outward and a stretcher rolled through, bearing Tattoo. They watched him go by; his entire head was bandaged and he was still mostly under the anesthetic, hooked up to an IV. He appeared to be asleep, but when Roarke inquired, Dr. Phillips informed them that in fact Tattoo was conscious.

"He's very weak," he said, then smiled and added, "but the operation is a success."

Roarke let his head fall back for a second or two, and Leslie sagged against him, blowing out her breath. "Oh, what a relief," he said wholeheartedly.

Dr. Phillips' expression changed. "What I'm concerned with now is his mental state."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other, their relief and their smiles fading simultaneously. "What do you mean?" Roarke asked.

"Depression," Dr. Phillips said. "Depression is always a possibility after surgery as serious as his was—a very dangerous possibility. If he should begin to believe that he isn't going to make it, the chances are he won't."

Again guardian and ward exchanged looks, these filled with alarm; then Roarke asked with quiet urgency, "When may we see him?" 

"The sooner the better," Dr. Phillips said. Roarke thanked him and led Leslie down the hall, both moving just short of a run.

Tattoo's room was dim, with only the hallway illumination and the faint light of a waning moon to show them the way around. Tattoo still seemed to be asleep, but when they stopped beside his bed, he surprised them by murmuring, "Hi, boss, hi, Leslie."

"Well," Roarke said softly, "your powers of perception are growing at a fantastic rate, my friend. You knew who it was without even opening your eyes."

"I knew you were gonna be here," Tattoo replied, finally opening his eyes to gaze up at them. Then he asked, quite out of left field, "I'm gonna die, right, boss?"

"No," Roarke said almost inaudibly, shaking his head.

Leslie snapped to attention beside him. "Where'd you get that idea?" she demanded incredulously. "We won't let you, so don't even think about it."

Tattoo barely glanced at her and responded as if neither of them had spoken at all. "That's why you didn't want to talk about your wedding. Because what happened to your wife is gonna happen to me."

Roarke's smile vanished and he leaned down. "That's not true, Tattoo," he said, his voice carrying a thin edge of urgency. "That's not true."

"I will never forget the day I found out," Tattoo said in a soft, hoarse voice. "Never."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other, and she swallowed thickly and hung her head for a moment before looking up. "You didn't tell me till the next day," she remembered, "and poor Jamie had to find out from his grandfather when you and Helena came back early from your honeymoon trip. But how did Tattoo find out?"

Roarke frowned slightly and looked at his assistant. "You never told me exactly how you discovered that Helena was dying," he said.

"I overheard her parents talking," Tattoo whispered, closing his eyes again. "At the party, when you were dancing with Helena, after Leslie and Jamie had gone to bed for the night."

"I see," murmured Roarke, his eyes losing focus for a moment; they were all silent, each remembering the moment they had individually learned Helena's fate. Then Roarke looked up at Tattoo, sighing ever so softly. "I'll never forget that day either. And you know, it was then that I realized how much I depend on you, not just as my assistant, but as my friend."

"It was easy to be your friend," said Tattoo in a half-whisper.

"Was?" repeated Roarke ominously. Restless with a sudden surge of outrage at what appeared to be Tattoo's slow process of giving up, he arose and paced toward the window. "Stop talking like that." In the wake of the painful memory they had all just relived, Tattoo's hopelessness seemed palpable, tangible, curling cold fingers around their necks. Leslie actually shivered, staring at Tattoo, unable to think of a thing to say. Helplessly she shifted her gaze to Roarke, who turned just in time to see the scared look on her face; he directed his next words to Tattoo. "You're frightening Leslie, don't you see?" Tattoo's eyes blinked open and he eyed Leslie with an expression of detached curiosity that made her shrink away and fight back tears. Roarke spoke with a little less patience this time, trying to reach his friend. "Tattoo, dying is one thing; being left behind is quite another."

The words broke through Leslie's already-fragile control, and her shoulders shook as she tried desperately to hold back her tears. Roarke pulled her into his embrace, still addressing his assistant. "Do you remember Mr. Tony Chilton?"

"The man who wanted to be a fighter pilot in World War II?" Tattoo asked.

Roarke nodded. "Because he wanted to meet his father, who had died during that war. You see, the pain of being left behind like that was something with which Mr. Chilton had never learned to live." He stroked Leslie's hair. "And why don't you ask Leslie about the pain she went through at the deaths of her entire family? Would you put her through it all over again?"

Tattoo's gaze drifted out of focus, as if he had turned inward; a tiny smile appeared on his face. "Boss, I think I see your point," he said softly. Roarke wondered what memory he had called forth, but he wasn't altogether certain he had convinced Tattoo. Still, he murmured, "Good," hoping to encourage him. The word made Leslie look up uncertainly; Roarke smiled at her, and she glanced at Tattoo, blinking at the sight of the strange little smile on his face. Hope crept into her expression, worrying Roarke all the more.

Just then a young intern and a nurse came in, flooding the room with light, to check up on the heart monitor, calling Roarke's and Leslie's attention to the machine as they did so. For the first time they noticed its erratic beeping and looked at each other, just as Tattoo spoke. "Thank you, boss, Leslie…for everything," he murmured. Then he closed his eyes, and two seconds later, the monitor flatlined.

There was a breath's worth of reaction and realization; then the nurse jammed the call button beside the bed, and the intern rushed to the door, shouting, "Get the crash cart in here!" Over the speakers in the ceiling they heard the calm, almost robotic female voice ubiquitous to hospitals, announcing, "Code Blue, Code Blue, room 114…" Roarke and Leslie both leaned over the bed, cajoling Tattoo to wake up; Roarke was urgent, Leslie increasingly frantic.

The nurse ran around to the other side of the bed as Dr. Phillips and two more interns rolled in a resuscitation machine. Leslie's eyes went huge with realization as she recognized it for what it was, and she tried to see Tattoo around Dr. Phillips for a moment even as Roarke straightened up and pulled her back against the window wall and out of their way. She shot him a look of pure terror, one he'd never before seen on her, that made him pull her close just so they'd both have something to hold onto.

Dr. Phillips managed to get Tattoo's heart going again with an injection, marginally relaxing Roarke and Leslie; everyone breathed a little more easily, even the medicos, when the monitor showed a slow beat. Tattoo was still unconscious, but Dr. Phillips assured them this was normal and it might be some time before he awoke. Everyone remained in the room, none fully at ease, all carefully watching Tattoo or the heart monitor.

Almost ten minutes passed, and just as they thought it might be all right, they noticed the beat gradually slowing down. Someone muttered something, just before the machine flatlined again. The nurse prepared another injection, but the monitor remained undisturbed, emitting a continuous whine.

"Paddles," Dr. Phillips ordered tersely. Leslie turned white, and Roarke's eyes went very wide. Pressed back against the wall beside the windows, they watched in horror as the interns deftly slid a body board beneath Tattoo and the nurse threw the bedcovers back. One of the interns opened Tattoo's hospital johnny and prepared his chest with the conductive gel while the other intern got the machine ready, adjusting the voltage to compensate for Tattoo's smaller size. When Dr. Phillips applied the paddles, Leslie clung to Roarke, her whole body quaking in terror, hands curled tightly around fistfuls of his jacket and her face buried in his shoulder. Roarke understood her feelings perfectly; he held her hard, cradling her head with one hand and resting his cheek against her hair, closing his eyes. When they heard the jolt, Leslie moaned and Roarke winced, but neither moved otherwise.

Faintly, from across the room, the heart monitor beeped irregularly for a moment, then settled into a steady but rapid peeping. Roarke looked up to see the medical team expel deep sighs and visibly relax. "Keep him stable," Dr. Phillips ordered, "but keep the paddles ready just in case." He turned to see Roarke and Leslie huddled together; she had raised her head just enough to peer warily out at the room. "Would you two rather wait in another—"

"_No,"_ Roarke and Leslie both said instantly and emphatically. Shivering, she turned her face back against his shoulder, and he patted her back. "No, doctor," he said, carefully moderating his voice, "we would both prefer to wait here, if you don't mind."

"All right, but you really should get some sleep," Dr. Phillips advised, and without waiting for a reply he walked out. They both stared after him as if he were crazy; the nurse noticed and smiled at them.

"We'll be here for Tattoo all night if that's what it takes," she promised them. "Let us know if we can get you anything, coffee or whatever, okay?" They nodded gratefully at her and at last dared let themselves relax. They slowly settled into the wicker chairs, but there would be no sleep for either of them for the rest of that night.

§ § § -- May 8, 1983

"Just rest quietly." Dr. Phillips' voice broke through a hazy black fog in Leslie's mind and she blinked, squinting in the morning sunlight, feeling disoriented. Had she dozed off after all? She couldn't quite remember what time it had been the last time she'd checked with Roarke, and lifted her head, wincing as her arm pulled away from the wicker and she noticed the deep red dents in her skin.

Dr. Phillips turned from Tattoo's bed and sighed deeply, addressing Roarke. "We've done all we can…I just wish that we could do more." His eyes swept over Leslie, paused on her a second or two as if startled to see her awake, and then closed before he departed the room after the nurses and interns with the crash cart. Leslie staggered to her feet and saw that Tattoo lay in the bed, awake but blank-faced, almost as if he were sorry they'd resuscitated him.

"Did I sleep?" she mumbled to Roarke.

He noticed her for the first time and glanced at the clock on the wall. "For not quite an hour," he said. "You really should have gone home and tried to sleep, Leslie."

"I wouldn't have slept any better in my own bed than I did here," she said stubbornly and stared at Tattoo, who didn't seem to notice. "Not that it would have mattered to him, probably."

"What makes you say that?" Roarke wanted to know.

"Well, look at him, lying there like we're not even here. Do you really think he cares, after what he did last night?"

Roarke studied Tattoo for a moment, then turned back to Leslie and asked quietly, "Do you think he deliberately stopped his own heart?"

She nodded, tears filling her eyes. "How else could it have happened just like that, so completely, all at once? It was as if he willed his heart to stop, and it did."

Roarke glanced at Tattoo again, frowned slightly and conceded in a very low tone, "Perhaps you're right, Leslie. But he's with us now, and we must do our best to make sure he stays with us."

"I'd be happy to, if I thought it would work," she muttered.

Roarke shushed her and brushed her hair back. "No more talk like that," he chided gently. "Let's go talk to him." She nodded, and they approached the bed, both of them gratified—and admittedly a little surprised—when Tattoo focused on them.

"Hi, boss, Leslie," he murmured.

"Hi," replied Roarke, smiling. Leslie tried on a smile of her own for size, though she was sure both Roarke and Tattoo would think it was fake.

Tattoo squinted critically at Leslie for a moment, then looked at Roarke and asked, "Tell me, how am I doing? Tell me the truth."

"Very well, my friend," Roarke acceded. "The truth is, you had a very rough night, and they're having some difficulty stabilizing your vital signs, that's all."

"Am I gonna make it?" came the inevitable question.

Behind Roarke, Leslie winced; neither saw her, however, as Roarke leaned on the bed railing and remarked, "They tell me that's very much up to you, my friend."

"Hm," muttered Tattoo. His eyes slid out of focus for a moment; then he peered up at Roarke and said, "Boss, I think you should start looking for a replacement."

"But Tattoo, there are so many things on the island only you can do," Roarke protested, keeping his voice light even though he was well aware that behind him, Leslie was fighting fatigue and thus a whole shipload of emotions that she was almost too exhausted to control. "For instance, who else could have handled the fantasy of a rather strange little man named Ace Smith?" He grinned. "Remember?"

"Oh yeah," Tattoo murmured, grinning back weakly. "He was just another one in a long, long string of Red Baron fantasies, but boy, he sure had a great time. He must have had a better time at it than anybody else who ever got that fantasy."

Roarke chuckled. "I'll never forget his vivid description of the battle he went through. I'm sorry, Leslie, this happened before you came to the island. Ace Smith was the dreamer to end all dreamers, I believe, and I often thought he was the living personification of Walter Mitty…yet the only fantasy he truly wanted was to shoot down the infamous Red Baron. And what a time he had doing it. Poor Tattoo really got a run for his money that time. He wandered in looking much the worse for wear, giving off smoke and toting a wooden propeller from his plane, complaining that perhaps I should stop selling those fantasies."

"Because I was being shot down three or four times a week," Tattoo said, rolling his eyes. "And that Ace Smith really relished what he was doing, too…but I gotta admit, he was a gentleman at heart. He saluted me, and what could I do but salute him back?"

"So did you give him a break, Mr. Roarke?" Leslie asked teasingly.

"Ah, those Red Baron fantasies were bestsellers for years," Roarke said, chuckling. "However, I realized Tattoo was going through quite a bit of stress, and I took him off the hook and hired on an out-of-work pilot. I believe he is still having the time of his life."

"Of course, he gets to fly all the time," Leslie pointed out, and they laughed, even Tattoo.

"And how could any replacement cope as readily as you with the mistakes I make?" Roarke went on.

"Mistakes? Not you, boss," Tattoo said, grinning.

"Wanna bet?" shot back Leslie, grinning back wickedly. "How about when he sent Santa Claus back to the North Pole with a piece of arm candy, and completely forgot that Mrs. Claus was going to be there waiting for him? I'll never forget that one—that was positively colossal, Mr. Roarke. I'm surprised Mrs. Claus didn't come looking for you."

They all laughed again as Dr. Phillips came in to take a look at the monitor and make a couple of adjustments. "Good morning," he said.

"Good morning, doctor," replied Roarke, still smiling. They watched the heart monitor for a moment, reassured by its steady beep, and waited till Dr. Phillips left before Roarke went on, "Fortunately for you, I don't make such mistakes very often."

Tattoo lifted a hand. "But I know one other time when you made a mistake."

"When?" Roarke asked, and Leslie leaned over with interest.

"You remember Jack the Ripper?" Tattoo asked with a grin at Leslie.

Roarke glanced at the ceiling. "You had to bring that up, didn't you," he said, shaking his head in mock disgust. Leslie snickered; they remembered all too well that long, scary weekend, and she felt grateful for once that she had been stuck in bed with the measles at the time.

"That time you almost blew it, boss," Tattoo remarked cheerfully.

"I certainly did," Roarke agreed.

"Or did you do it on purpose?" Tattoo mused thoughtfully, just as Dr. Phillips walked in.

"Well," Roarke pointed out with a grin, "if I replace you, you'll never know for sure, will you? Besides, just think of all the excitement you'd be missing!"

"Celebrities, fantasies, magic, everything," Leslie put in. "Where else in the world are you gonna find all that? Me, I know I'd rather be here than anywhere else."

Tattoo's eyes were bright. "You know…boss, I don't know what's happening, but I want to get well again. I feel better now, a lot better than I have since the accident." Leslie brightened at that, and Roarke met her gaze, smiling broadly.

Dr. Phillips gave Tttoo a careful, thorough once-over while they watched, and checked the heart monitor and IV, making some notes on the chart. He also measured Tattoo's pulse as the threesome gazed on, and at last straightened up, shaking his head as he removed the stethoscope. "What's wrong?" Tattoo wanted to know.

Dr. Phillips looked around and remarked, "You are making the fastest recovery from major surgery this hospital has ever seen." His face bore the look of one impressed beyond belief, and he grinned widely when Roarke and Leslie beamed at each other and then at Tattoo. They thanked him profusely, and he chuckled. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke, and you as well, Miss Leslie. I don't know how you did it, or what you did, but I'll tell you this: your medicine is a whole lot better than mine. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some _sick_ patients to attend to." He winked at Tattoo, grinned again and left the room.

"Ah, boss," Tattoo said as Roarke took a seat on the edge of the bed, "I think I know what the doctor means."

"What?" Roarke inquired.

"Love is the best medicine in the whole wide world," Tattoo said firmly, his dark eyes twinkling. "Don't you think so?"

Roarke regarded this with a semi-serious frown, then said, "I think that bump on your head made you wiser!"

Tattoo, still half-smiling, gave an exaggerated wince and lifted his hand to the bandage, making Leslie laugh. He grinned at her and said, "I take it back, what I said about you getting a replacement. I think you're gonna be stuck with me for a long—a very, very long—time!" And once more they all laughed, with relief as much as amusement. With Leslie it was clearly more than that; tears sparkled in her eyes again. Roarke pulled her around him so that she stood between him and Tattoo, and Tattoo reached up and took her hand.

"Don't you ever do that to us again," she scolded suddenly. "I hope you finally realize just how indispensable you really are around here. And anyway, who else would I talk to when Mr. Roarke can't be there?"

"You poor kid," Tattoo said with mock sympathy. "Well, you can stop worrying, and for heaven's sake, quit crying. You're getting me all wet." She stuck out her tongue at him, and he and Roarke both roared with laughter.


	20. Chapter 20

§ § § -- May 8, 1983

Tattoo was discharged from the hospital on Sunday evening, and by Monday suppertime was out and about, using a cane, his head still bandaged. After the meal Roarke and Leslie accompanied him for a walk along the Main House Lane. "Oh, what a beautiful day for your first constitutional, Tattoo," Roarke observed.

"Boss," Tattoo said regretfully, "I'm sorry I smashed my car."

"Oh, no matter," said Roarke cheerfully. "No matter. Walking is much healthier for you anyway."

"But much slower," noted Tattoo.

"That's right…it gives a person a chance to enjoy each flower, inhale the fragrance of each blossom, contemplate the beauty of the island…"

"And there's no problem with lead feet on the gas pedal," contributed Leslie, getting a dirty look from Tattoo that made her snicker.

"Okay, okay, you two, I get the message," he grumbled, and Roarke and Leslie traded grins. Their stroll eventually brought them out to a clearing not far from the intersection with the Ring Road, and Roarke pointed out something to Leslie and put a finger to his lips when her eyes grew wide with disbelief. She stared at him and he smiled, shaking his head once; she returned the smile and glanced at Tattoo. Her timing was perfect: he turned to look casually to his right and stopped in his tracks, his face going slack with amazement.

"Oh, boss!" he gasped. There sat Tattoo's car, repaired to as good as new and treated with a new coat of wax. "It's…it's…oh, wow!" Roarke and Leslie both broke into laughter at his overwhelmed reaction, and all of a sudden each one at the same moment was stricken with a recollection involving Tattoo and the car. Simultaneously they began, "Remember when—" In surprise they stopped, looked at one another and laughed again, thankful beyond words that they were all here to do just that together.

§ § § -- July 4, 2006

"He recovered completely, then?" Rogan asked.

"Pretty much, as I recall," Julie said, nodding. "The whole island found a reason to stop by his cottage and see how he was getting along, since everything had been totally shut down for that weekend on account of the accident. I dropped in on him a few times and gave him some French onion soup. I think he appreciated it. I just didn't realize he'd come so close to dying that weekend. Probably a good thing. I'd have been a wreck if I knew."

"Perhaps even more so if you had known that he seemed to have deliberately stopped his heart, as Leslie was convinced he did," commented Christian. "I think I've heard of such things before. In any case, I'm glad he recovered completely."

"Only to leave us within weeks," Roarke said through a gentle sigh. "It seems that, two days after Tattoo's discharge from the hospital, he received a particular letter from Solange Latignon, and before the month was out we had hosted an enormous wedding and watched him leave the island to start a new life."

Rory peered at him over the top of his milkshake glass. "Well, I know what we can do now. If we don't have any more stories about Tattoo, then how about Mom? She said she was your assistant for a year. I want to find out what happened to her."

"You mean, you'd like to embarrass your sainted mother, eh, lad?" Rogan asked, while Julie rolled her eyes.

"That'd be so typical. My own son having fun at my expense. Well, then, I'm sure you're just dying to tell some tales on me, so you might as well get to it." She blew out her breath and shifted in her seat. "What're you waiting for?"

"What were you doin' working for uncle to begin with, if you didn't stay with him very long?" Rogan wanted to know. "I expect even Lawrence outlasted you."

"Not by much," Julie said indignantly. "And I had a good reason for doing it only a year or so. I wanted to open up my parents' house as a B&B, but I had nothing to do it with, so I went to work for uncle that year in order to save up the money I needed for renovations to the house and all the supplies a B&B has to have." Her face suddenly seemed transformed by a memory, and a smile spread across her face. "I did have fun that year. Not that I'd want to do it permanently, like Leslie does, but it was really a learning experience, and I even had a good time."

But before anyone could suggest any specific fantasies to recall, they discovered that the triplets had all fallen asleep where they sat. Karina and Susanna had actually slumped against each other. "Maybe this is the time to quit," Christian mused, smiling. "I think we've heard so many stories, we're all ready for some sleep."

"Not me," Rory announced firmly.

"Yes, you," Julie said, equally firmly. "Come on, we've taken up enough of uncle's time. Thanks again for telling us all those wonderful stories, uncle and Leslie."

"Can we do it again?" Rory pleaded. "We'll tell 'em on Mom next time, right?"

"Don't be in too big a hurry," said Julie dryly. But as he watched the Callaghans depart and Christian and Leslie gather up children to take upstairs, Roarke realized that he'd been enjoying the storytelling so much that he planned to do it again as soon as he could!

* * *

_These are the fantasies that were adapted for this story:_

"_Tattoo: the Love God / Magnolia Blossoms", first aired September 21, 1979; with Marianne Marks as Luana, Kalani Kinimaka as the chief, Esmond Chung as Kona, Jake Hoopai and Elijah Papke as the two native men, Ingrid Wang as Aurelia, Lisa Hartman as Myra Kolinsky, and Pamela Franklin as Gladys Boyling_

"_With Affection, Jack the Ripper / Gigolo", first aired November 29, 1980; with Victor Buono as Dr. Fell, Lynda Day George as Lorraine Peters, Alex Cord as Robert West, Ken Berry as Stanley Hocker, Meredith MacRae as Dina DeWinter, Carolyn Jones as Jessie DeWinter, and Lyle Waggoner as Monty_

"_Portrait of Solange / Also-Rans", first aired February 28, 1981; with Elissa Leeds as Solange Latignon, David Groh as Mark Ellison, MacDonald Carey as Alfred Gérard, Larry Linville as Jerome Pepper, Joan Prather as Thalia Latham, Don Porter as Emmett Latham, Arlene Dahl as Amelia Selby, and Dennis Kort as the ice-cream man_

"_Sitting Duck / Sweet Suzi Swann", first aired March 6, 1982; with Chuck Connors as Frank Barton, Helen Reddy as Suzi Swann, and George Maharis as Jack Hecker_

"_The Perfect Gentleman / Legend", first aired October 30, 1982; with Paul Williams as Jimmy Jordan, Leslie Easterbrook as Michelle Buchanan, Claudia Lonow as Taylor Buchanan, Kari Michaelsen as Cassie Buchanan, Paul Gale as the piano-playing stud, Michelle Phillips as Andrea Barclay, and Andy Griffith as Judge Roy Bean_

"_The Winning Ticket / Naughty Marietta", first aired January 8, 1983; with Hope Lange as Margaret Stanton, Eddie Mekka as Eddie, Gwen Welles as Mitzi, David Doyle as Herbert Soames, Jayne Meadows Allen as Beatrice Soames, and Dorothy Hamill as Allison Soames_

"_King of Burlesque / Death Games", first aired March 12, 1983; with Joanna Pettet as Vanessa Walgren, Michael Billington as Henri Ducette, Rich Little as Tom Vale, and Barbara Stock as Abby Monroe_

"_Remember When…", first aired May 7, 1983; with Richard Lineback as Dr. Phillips and Maria Roosakos as Nuala (containing, among others you'll recognize, references to "Crescendo / Three Feathers", first aired December 20, 1980; and "The Appointment / Mr. Tattoo", first aired November 18, 1978, in which Ricardo Montalbán and Hervé Villechaize actually did perform a song called "Nothing Hurts Like Love"!)  
_

_A note: my floppy-disk drive died (well, got Alzheimer's) on May 5, so I am experimenting with burning documents onto CD for posting. It may be a while before I can get the next story under way, so bear with me, please…and thank you all for all the wonderful reviews!_


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